


The Cambion

by starvingsnout



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Interspecies Relationship(s), Jesy Nelson/Leigh-Anne Pinnock - Freeform, M/M, On Hiatus, Perrie Edwards/Niall Horan - Freeform, Slow Burn Romance, Themes of Abuse and Neglect
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-19
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-13 19:38:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 44,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2162658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starvingsnout/pseuds/starvingsnout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn is a cambion, member of a human-like species with horns and a tail, who bursts into stressed out office worker Harry's life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Surprise Visitor

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't really know how to tag this, but basically this is a comedy with some serious themes attached mainly due to Zayn's background and the poor socio-economic status of cambions. I've been writing this fic in little pieces on Tumblr until now and I had a conversation there with someone about the danger of Zayn being Otherized - it's something I've put quite a lot of thought into and I'll do my best to avoid it.
> 
> This will continue to be updated irregularly, with short chapters. It's low on my list of priorities as far as unfinished fics are concerned :P

Yet another abysmal day at work. Harry had never felt so overwhelmed, overworked, and unappreciated in his life. Any final thoughts of impressing his boss and rising through the ranks of the corporate ladder at record speed had finally dissipated today when at 5.30, just when he was about to finally call it a day, his boss Liam had dumped yet another pile of paper on his desk without so much as a word. A post-it on top said “return on my desk by noon tmrw”. It took him almost two hours to get through it and even then he would have to come in early next morning to wrap it up.

 

When he left the building he was so tired he could barely see straight. On most days, no matter how exhausted, he managed to log a quick half hour at the gym after work, but tonight he headed straight home to his apartment in Camden. It had been his dream to live there since he hit puberty but what good was the fantastic location when he never had the time to visit any of the famous music clubs that had drawn him there?

 

With a long, drawn out sigh Harry opened his front door and threw his satchel bag and anorak in the direction of the coat rack. As he bent over to pull off his boots he suddenly felt a cold draft on his face. Had he left a window open? No, that couldn’t be, he hardly ever opened any when it was this cold. The draft was coming from the lounge, anyway; he wasn’t sure that the big windows there even could be opened. 

 

He couldn’t see anyone in the room from where he was standing, but the long white curtains in front of the double doors leading into his tiny rear garden were fluttering gently. The doors must have been ajar. Bloody hell. Burglars? There was barely anything worth stealing in the flat. Harry always took his laptop to work along most of this other small electronics, and his telly was old and dodgy and definitely not appealing even to the most desperate of thieves. 

 

Harry inched forward slowly, holding the door frame on each side in case he needed support against a sudden attack. No such thing occurred, however, and at first the room appeared empty and just as he’d left it in the morning. Then he noticed a muddy print on the floor by the doors. Then some more prints, until he realized they formed a trail towards the kitchenette, tucked into a nook behind the dining table, currently out of Harry’s line of sight. 

 

It must have been an animal. The dirt trail had no shoe prints, and there was a curious pattern to it, like something had been dragged through it. A tail?

 

Harry walked fully into the lounge but stopped abruptly the moment he could see in the kitchenette. There was indeed something in there, but Harry wasn’t sure if it could be called an animal.

 

It was naked, crouched over itself like a gargoyle, hunched low against the knees. The toes of of its dirty feet, streaked with flaking mud, were curled tight over the edge of the counter top to keep it in balance as it reached deep into the open fridge with one of its long, wiry arms. Its tail, slick and scaly, swished back and forth like an engorged eel. It seemed disproportionately big on its narrow, bony body. Thick and muscular at the base, tapering gradually towards the tip, with hard little ridges lining the top. It must have been a good four feet long, at least. 

 

A cambion, he realised. A real, live cambion in his kitchen, naked and dirty, rummaging through his fridge. 

 

"Excuse me?" 

 

The creature twisted its torso around, slowly, still leaning into the fridge. It had a startlingly pretty face with big dark eyes half hidden behind black, unkempt hair. It didn’t seem surprised to see Harry nor did it seem frightened. Wary, perhaps. Its tail was whipping lazily back and forth as the seconds ticked by, and it was Harry that soon started feeling oddly self-conscious, as if he was the intruder instead of the… that. 

 

Then the creature raised its free hand, and Harry realised it was clutching an egg between its long, black nails. Mute in shock, he watched how the creature bared two little fangs, licked them a little with his thick tongue as if to clean them up, and tore them savagely into the egg. Harry could hear distinct slurpy sucking noises and watched with fascination at its pale throat working down the feast. Once it was done with the egg, it crumpled up the empty shell and threw it on the floor, grabbing another one, eyes still on Harry. The fangs went in again, a little too hard this time, and a thick trail of orange goo started dripping down its jaw and neck. The skin around the creature’s eyes was wrinkling slightly, as if it was laughing at its audience.

 

“I have a recycling bin, you know, under the counter,” Harry finally found his voice, his heartbeat almost normal now. He remembered seeing stories about feral cambions attacking humans in the news, but as far as he knew it was a rare occurrence and this particular individual seemed friendly enough, if not a little rude.

 

The creature made no reply but tensed when Harry moved forward hands in the air to show he meant no harm. Unfortunately Harry wasn’t the most sure-footed person around and slipped at the seam between the floors of the lounge and the kitchen. He fell forward, limbs flying uncontrollably around him, and the startled cambion sprung to action, as well. It scampered along the counter, dropping whatever was in its way, and leaped on the floor on all fours. Harry reached towards it in a last attempt to calm it down, but it was too late. The cambion disappeared through the double doors faster than he’d ever seen anything move.


	2. Do Your Research

A bag of frozen peas balanced on his forehead, Harry booted up his laptop and opened an Internet browser. He’d never paid much attention to cambions since they were extremely rare in England, and because they generally related very little to his life, but now he was dying to know more.

 

He typed ‘cambion’ in the search bar and clicked on the first result that came up, the Wikipedia page for cambions. It was long and full of terms and science and Harry quickly lost his patience with it. The only thing he learned was that cambions were usually referred to with ‘he’ and ‘she’ instead of ‘it’. Impatiently, he backbuttoned and clicked the second link, which lead to a page titled “FAQ about Cambions” by the Ministry of Justice. This one was clearly written in a much more lay person friendly style, and Harry shimmied into a comfortable position as he started skimming through sections that interested him the most.

 

_What Are the Cambions?_

_Cambions are a humanoid species related both to humans and amphibians (e.g. frogs). In appearance they are human-like, with a long, muscular tail, small horns on the head, and canine-like fangs._

_Their origin and genealogy are not yet fully known. They are sentient beings and highly intelligent, but as of yet there is no consensus among the scientific community about the extent of their similarities with humans. They were granted non-human personhood by the United Nations in 1983, which was incorporated into a law in the UK the following year. The vast majority of the countries of the world have followed suit. (See full list of countries and dates here.)_

_How Do They Communicate?_

_Cambions are known to have learned human languages, but this is rare due to various factors (read more about human-cambion relations here). Amidst themselves they normally communicate in various extremely high-pitched sounds, not unlike those of whales’._

_What Do They Eat?_

_The cambions are primarily carnivores and skilled hunters. Their preferred prey are frogs, lizards, small birds and eggs. They are also capable of digesting most human foods, and are known to have developed a liking for dairy products and alcoholic beverages in particular._

_Where Do They Live?_

_Cambions love warm weather, water, and ample vegetation, and are thusly mostly found in warm climate countries along the equator. Their exact numbers and locations are not well known as they prefer to stay far away from humans. Sometimes orphaned or banished individuals are found near human settlements and are known to adopt human lifestyles. In the outdoors they generally build a hut-like nests in sheltered locations using whatever materials are available. Most cambions have a living habitat less than 5 sq km in size and they rarely venture outside it._

 

Harry stopped reading and sat at back in his chair, thinking. Camden did have a nice collection of parks but were any of them secluded enough to offer a cambion peaceful living space? Harry was far from an expert in that regard, he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d gone to a park, but it didn’t seem likely a cambion could just build a hut somewhere undetected.

 

But perhaps the cambion was simply passing through? Seriously, what on earth was it doing in London? As far he knew, there were only a handful of cambions in London (and indeed the UK) and they were all some kind of representatives in the government.

 

He stood up and walked into the garden, if it could be called that. It was really just a tiny enclosed courtyard, surrounded by his apartment on one side - an end of terrace, corner property - and a white brick wall on the other. On the other side of the wall there was a much larger property with an enormous garden. Was it possible that the cambion was residing there? With his sharp claws he could probably scale the wall with ease.

 

Harry didn’t know much about his next door neighbour. His name was Niall Horan, he was Irish, a millionaire, and had the reputation of a playboy. He was a golf enthusiast, dyed his hair blond, and held noisy pool parties every other day, with celebrity guests and giant feasts. He drove a BMW when he wasn’t driving his Ferrari, had dated some of the hottest women in the world, and regularly featured in the news for having done some outrageous stunt.

 

Alright, maybe Harry knew quite a bit about his neighbour. But they had never spoken beyond a casual greeting, and he wasn’t at all sure how the man would receive an impromptu visit from Harry, asking after stray cambions. Mr Horan was said to be chill and relaxed, but you never knew with rich people. Might be he was only chill with people he considered his equals.

 

That being said, what if the cambion really was residing in Mr Horan’s garden? What would the millionaire do if he caught the creature? There was of course always the possibility that the man knew about the cambion, but there was no relying on that. No, it was definitely up to Harry to get to the bottom of this. In fact, he should probably try and deal with this without notifying Mr Horan at all since it was also a possibility that some sort of unlawful business was going on. The Ministry web site had distinctly said that cambions were much closer to humans than animals, and it was a crime to keep them as pets. But who knew what some filthy rich bored Irishman might do with his money and connections?

 

Mind made up, Harry went back inside to fetch a step ladder chair and placed it next to the brick wall. It was just tall enough for Harry to comfortably reach the top of the wall when he climbed on it.


	3. Secret Garden

Jumping down a ten foot wall didn’t seem like such a great feat while Harry was still sat on top of it, gazing down at the well-tailored lawn that would serve as his landing turf. He was sure he’d make it unscathed, especially if he first let himself hang down as far as he could with his hands to shorten the fall. This turned out to be an erroneous assumption. 

 

After he took what he thought was a good, firm hold of the wall he started lowering his body down the wall, biceps bulging. It went well until he was down to his chest and had to straighten his arms. He lost his hold in the fraction of a second and fell to the ground, feet first. The impact shook his body from head to toe and for a long moment his world was a confusing swirl of dizziness and shock. As the disorientation receded he became aware of a white hot pain in his right ankle.

 

Carefully, Harry pushed himself up, leaning on his left as he tested the hurt foot. It was painful, like someone had tried to crush the bone with a stone, but it was probably not broken since he could stand on it. He was such an idiot! Why hadn’t he used the step ladder again to get down? If this turned out to be a serious injury, what would he tell Liam? He couldn’t afford sick days right now.

 

Hopefully the grass had at least muted out any noises he may have made slamming to the ground. And if head, at least there was a large sycamore tree shielding him from view from the house. He’d got a fairly good impression of the property as a whole from his perch on the wall and knew that if he continued to the left he should able to avoid all the residential buildings (and there seemed to be several), which was probably what the cambion was doing as well, assuming Mr Horan was unaware of his existence.

 

Mr Horan’s garden wasn’t your typical neat, well-structured rich person townhouse garden. It was messy and informal, with shrubs and trees and rambling rose bushes in seemingly random patterns. There were so many plants and flowers that he felt truly enveloped by them, as if he was truly in some rural county far from city life. His chest constricted with longing and it took him a moment to realise it was because the garden reminded him of Holmes Chapel. While he could no longer imagine permanently living anywhere smaller than London, he really wished he could have visited home more often. When he’d first moved out he’d gone back almost weekend - nowadays he barely managed twice a year.

 

Harry limped deeper into the garden, through a bank of wild flowers, and came upon a dense grove of trees, mostly goat willows and hollies, nestling an octagon-shaped gazebo. It was wrought in decorative iron and so overtaken by the surrounding shrubbery that it was probably not in active use. Unless perhaps by a cambion.

 

Very quietly, Harry crept forward until he was right by the entrance and bent aside some obstructing branches for a better view. Light was scarce inside, blocked by the trees, and there was a thick layer of dry leaves on the floor, but no vegetation growth. Clearly someone pruned the branches when they came in through the windows. Then he heard a low, rumbling noise, followed by wheezing, and a rumbling noise again. Snoring! He pushed his head further inside and blinked in surprise when he spotted a previously dark mass of… something, hanging in mid-air. A swing? Couldn’t be, it was much too big and bulky. 

 

Harry forced his head even further inside, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark. The shape was elongated and curved at the ends, a little like a banana. Oh! It was a hammock, bulging with weight in the middle, tied to two opposing window frames of the gazebo. And right there at the other end he could make out a tail hanging towards the floor limp and motionless, switching slightly every few seconds as its owner slept, perhaps reacting to a dream.

 

Harry retreated as quietly as he’d approached. If he woke the cambion, the creature would only run again, and who even knew where he might go. Especially when it was starting to get rather cold at nights. How had the cambion even survived in the outdoors so far? Did he sneak inside the house when it got dark? Had he simply adapted to the weather and grown a thicker skin, like dogs on farms?

 

Quick googling hadn’t made Harry an expert on cambions and he had no idea what he was supposed to do next. Who should he contact? The police? RSPCA? This wasn’t even his property. Which… actually only left him with just one course of action. He needed to talk to Mr Horan.


	4. Rich People with Rich Laughs

 

Harry approached the house from behind, over the dark wood decking of the pool area, and under the glass roof covering the vast patio. The large patio doors too were entirely of glass and gave Harry a full view of the room behind them, filled with an array of bland but comfy furniture.

 

"Hello there," a woman’s voice said behind him. He flinched and straightened his posture, not having realised the way he’d been pressed up against the doors. God, he must look like such a creeper.

 

"Good evening," he said in his best RP and turned around with a polite smile that fell flat when he saw who he was talking to. She was wearing booty shorts and combat shoes and there was a tattoo of cursive text curling around one of her tan, muscled thighs.

 

"Had a good look yet, love?"

 

Harry’s attention snapped to the woman’s face, round and framed by a voluptuous mass of auburn hair, glossy and perfect like in a magazine. Her eyes were hidden behind a pair of cat-eye shades with the brand name on the side in diamond crusts. Her voice was friendly, though. Jovial and a little broad. Chavvy. Self-made woman, then.

 

"I’m so sorry, this must look extremely weird."

 

The woman waved it away. She was holding an expensive looking phone. “Don’t sweat it, dear. This happens all the time. That overgrown excuse of a garden becomes an Ikea shop when you’re the slightest bit under the influence. Niall really should get down to fixing it. One of these days someone will get permanently lost in it.” She smiled affably. “Can I get you a taxi? Something to eat?”

 

Harry paused, struggling to keep up. “Oh, you- No, no, I’m not a guest. I’m Mr Horan’s neighbour. I um- climbed over the wall into his garden just now.”

 

"Climbed over the wall?" Now the woman took off her shades to inspect Harry more carefully. Her eyes were done up thick with kohl, but it wasn’t enough to hide the bags under her eyes. "I don’t think I’ve seen you before."

 

Here came the tricky part. Harry braced himself. “Well, you see, Mr Horan and I are not exactly friends. I’m actually, sort of, trespassing. But I have a very good explanation for this, I promise. Is uh- is Mr Horan home?”

 

The woman closed the distance between them, not seeming the slightest bit phased as she strolled towards Harry. “He’s taking a shower, give it a moment. Why don’t you step inside and we’ll have a chat over some cocktails and snacks while you wait. Niall has an amazing liquor cabinet. Them Irish, you know?” She slid open one of the glass doors next to him and swaggered in like she owned the place. Harry followed her slowly, quite frankly astonished that she didn’t seem the slightest bit wary of him. He was a strange man who had just confessed to breaking into the property!

 

"Are you sure you should let me in?" he asked, lingering by the doorway.

 

"I don’t know, should I?" The woman sounded almost indifferent and maybe a little bit amused, not as much as glancing back at Harry as she headed to what looked like a miniature bar in pseudo Western style, complete with a pair of small wooden saloon doors at the side. She let herself behind the counter through them and leaned against towards Harry on her elbows, drawling in a hammy Texan accent, "My name is Jesy, what’s yours, lone stranger?" as she started gathering up a row of bottles.

 

Concluding that he’d simply been dismissed as a threat and that there was nothing he could do about it, Harry removed his dirty, grass-stained trainers, placed them neatly outside on the patio, and slid the glass door shut. Maybe this was some sort of rich people thing, this strange kind of self-assurance that nothing bad could happen to them. Or maybe she had a pistol hid behind that counter. “I’m Harry Styles,” he introduced himself as he carefully navigated his way through the various bits of furniture towards the bar. Who even knew how expensive the stuff was?

 

"Nice to meet you, Mr Styles." Jesy placed two glasses on the counter and picked a bottle seemingly at random, pouring them both an inch of dark brown liquor.

 

"Oh, what’s this? Social drinking without me?" a new voice piped up behind them, one that Harry recognized as Mr Horan’s. "Styles, is that you? What brings you here?"

 

"He says he’s trespassing but for a good reason," Jesy told the millionaire before Harry even managed to open his mouth. "Found him on the patio."

 

"Evening, Mr Horan." Harry stood up from his stool awkwardly, wondering if he should extend his hand to the shorter man.

 

The millionaire laughed loudly. “How many times have I told you to call me Niall?” He came forward with his arms held open, fluttery chest hair visible at the collar of his loose dressing gown. Harry accepted the hug stiffly, still unsure about what sort of behaviour was expected of him. True enough, Mr Horan had often asked to be called Niall, but well. You never knew.

 

"So what appears to be the matter, Harry?" the blond man asked, he too letting himself behind the counter where he helped himself to a massive plate of chicken wings out of a mini fridge in the corner. His hair was still mostly wet, with some drier tufts in the middle that made him look rather young.

 

Harry took a deep breath. “Alright, so. I realise that this might sound a little crazy, but I saw him with my own eyes, first in my kitchen and then in your garden. Basically, there is a cambion living in your gazebo.” It felt strange saying the c word aloud. Like he might as well have proclaimed he’d seen a ghost.

 

"A cambion?"Mr Horan repeated, thoughtfully chewing a chicken wing. "I thought there are no cambions in England. I’ve never seen one for sure. Met a few in Brazil but they weren’t very sociable. Didn’t seem to care much for humans, to be honest. Can’t blame them, really. They weren’t being treated very well from what I could tell. Is there really a cambion in my garden? There’s been rabbits and hedgehogs and once a family of foxes, but a cambion? Seems a bit of a cold time of year for them to be living in anyone’s garden. The ones I saw in Brazil were all naked-"

 

"Are you sure it was a cambion, love?" Jesy cut off Niall’s rambling. She didn’t look very convinced. "Sometimes when you see just a glimpse of something, your mind fills in the rest with-"

 

"I’m absolutely certain," Harry stated firmly. "It- _He_ was in my kitchen, sitting right there on the counter when I came home. Naked and kind of rough looking and then he ran away when I tried to approach him. I figured he must have come from here and came over the wall to check. I wasn’t sure if- well, I thought he might have run away from…someone.”

 

Niall seemed very taken aback. “You sayin’ you thought I was keeping a cambion as captive?”

 

Jesy patted him on the shoulder. “It was a reasonable thought. He doesn’t know what a soft-hearted baby you are.” She pinched Niall’s cheek and cackled when he slapped her hand away. Harry wondered exactly what their relationship was all about; she didn’t really act like his girlfriend but there was some odd vibe there that made him think she wasn’t just a friend either. “So, you got in the garden and found him in the gazebo. Did he run away again?” Jesy was talking to Harry again.

 

"No, he was sleeping. In a hammock. I made sure not to wake him."

 

"Oh, right!" Niall brightened up. "I forgot how nice it is to sleep there in the summer! I should definitely do that again soon meself as well."

 

Jesy tutted at him. “Focus, Niall. This really needs to be sorted out. It would be best if we could somehow communicate with this cambion without scaring him away. They’re intelligent creatures and there’s a reasonable chance he knows English. We just need to let him know we mean no harm.”

 

"How?" Harry asked, fully trusting her to come up with something. Jesy had a kind of natural air of authority around her.

 

"Let me think a bit." The woman looked thoughtfully around the room, tapping her fingers leisurely on the counter until she finally fixated on the plate of chicken wings under their noses. "But of course. Oldest trick in the book."

 

Niall followed her gaze and groaned. "Oh, _c’mon_.”

 


	5. Sick Day

The plan was simple. They would place the plate of chicken in front of the gazebo along with some blankets, clothes, and beer (Mr Horan, who Harry had finally conceded to calling Niall, insisted it was the ultimate act of friendship) and leave the glass doors of the lounge open in case the cambion would trust them enough to come inside the house already during the night. Cambions were known to sleep up to fourteen hours a day so there might not be any contact for a while, but they had all agreed that letting the creature come to them on his terms was vastly better than disturbing his sleep.

 

They went all three together to the gazebo, quiet as mouse, and Jesy and Niall took turns peeking inside, both barely capable of hiding their excitement. Niall had to clamp both his hands on his mouth to keep elated giggles from bursting forth and didn’t even seem too sorry about leaving the wings behind as they started back towards the house. The evening was about to turn into night by now, and Harry realised he really should start making his leave. When he brought it up Jesy immediately suggested he stay in the house with them, but Harry knew he wouldn’t get any sleep knowing the cambion might show up any moment. So he regretfully bade the curious duo goodbye and made his way home, this time via the street like normal people.

 

Niall and Jesy had discussed spending the next day around the house, and Harry really wished he could afford the same luxury. Not only might he miss out on something incredible but his ankle was starting to throb harder and harder. He’d managed to forget about it for the hour or so he’d spent at Niall’s house, but now his leg seemed to making double the effort to be noticed. How was Harry supposed to even catch a good night’s sleep like this? He couldn’t take refuge in a sleeping pill; he’d only be groggy and too out of it to finish his report in the morning.

 

Bloody Liam. What was the matter with that man anyway? Always so uptight and neurotic, as if the fate of the world somehow rested on their department’s shoulders. He’d managed to turn all his workers into anxious wrecks too. In uni Harry had been the chill and confident type; sure, there’d been big exams and last minute cramming of facts and numbers, but none of it had ever bothered him all that much because they were all in the same boat and together made the intense library study sessions fun.

 

Once he’d started working under Liam, though, his entire laid-back personality seemed to have been gradually drained away and implanted with a fervent desire to please his chronically jittery boss by mimicking all his obsessions and paranoia. Even the slightest little detail going wrong was enough to send him and the rest of the department into a flurry of panic, dashing about to fix the problem. It was like they’d all been conditioned, brainwashed, to act just like Liam via some mysterious unknown means.

 

The more Harry thought about it, the more resentful he found himself. Even his very last conscious thought when he buried himself under three layers of blankets in his bed was a fervent wish that he didn’t have to go to work tomorrow.

 

***

 

Apparently the universe was in a merciful mood because by morning Harry’s ankle had swollen up to the extent that he could barely walk. He could scarcely believe his luck and wasted no time in dialling up, almost gleefully, their personnel officer’s number before even brushing his teeth.

 

"Whooz this and whaff you want?" Perrie mumble-growled in her very unamused morning voice, as if she was angrily faceplanting her knees. She probably was.

 

"Does your phone ID not work?"

 

"Me eyes are swollen shut. And there’s a vomiting child two seats away. I’m wearing me best shoes. I hate this line. I bet your line is better."

 

"It’s not. But my day is about to be. I’m calling in sick."

 

"What?" Perrie’s voice sounded much clearer now. "You lucky bastard, where’d you manage to get sick? Can I come over to infect meself?"

 

"It’s not an infection. I hurt my foot yesterday and now it’s swollen."

 

"Well that’s suspicious."

 

"Exceptional circumstances, what can I say. I trust you’ll inform Liam of my absence."

 

Perrie groaned deep from her chest. “I hate you so much. He’ll probably burst an artery.”

 

"Probably. If he totally loses it, tell him I’ll be working from home as much as I can."

 

"Yeah, whatever. Are you goin’ to tell me what happened to your foot?"

 

Harry hesitated. “Would you believe me if I told you I climbed over a ten foot wall and explored an Irish millionaire’s overgrown garden of secrets?”

 

"No."

 

"In that case, I’m gonna have to tell you all about it later!"

 

After hanging up on Perrie Harry limped around his apartment in his boxers fixing himself tea and cereals and then settled into an armchair to watch BBC Breakfast. He might as well head over to Niall’s today but it was awfully early and he didn’t feel like putting clothes on yet. There was also the fact that his foot hurt like it was on fire and moving around made the pain almost unbearable. What was up with that? He hadn’t hit the ground that hard.

 

WebMD tried to convince him something horrible might happen if he didn’t get his foot examined by a doctor within 48 hours of injury, but since that was probably just some liability thing they were obligated to put in there, Harry ignored it and only read up on how to correctly treat a sprained ankle.

 

Half an hour later Harry was still sat on the settee, but now his foot was resting on a foot stool, wrapped up in gauze and duct tape (he didn’t have the recommended compression wrap), and balancing yet another bag of frozen peas. The rest of his body was encased in a thick woollen quilt, tucked around his head so that only his eyes and nose could be seen. He’d shut the telly and was instead browsing Facebook on his phone. It was still only 8 am and it was getting a little boring sitting here on his own. Maybe he should log in a short nap?

 

Harry was drifting somewhere in the no man’s land between sleep and wakefulness when there was a noise, so faint he barely registered it in his half-vegetative state. A metallic click? Taking slow, shallow breaths, he cracked his eyes open and turned them to the right where the double doors were, without moving his head. The curtains were fluttering! And right there behind them was a familiar figure, crouched low on the floor, completely still. Harry focused on his breathing, sucking in air slowly until his lungs felt like bursting, and then let it out in the thinnest stream. He’d been once told he was a noisy breather and he was determined to not fuck this up.

 

Finally, the figure moved and now Harry could see clearly it was indeed the cambion, as dirty and dishevelled as before but now wearing the track bottoms and hoody they’d left outside the gazebo. A warm feeling spread in Harry’s chest - their gifts had been accepted! Now that he thought about it, perhaps the creature thought they were in fact Harry’s gifts, though. Which would also explain why he’d come to Harry’s apartment instead of Niall’s house, albeit at a time Harry wouldn’t normally be home.

 

The cambion crawled across the lounge floor and then slipped into the bedroom. He came back almost immediately, though, probably only having checked to see if Harry was home, and then proceeded towards the kitchen nook. Was he going to help himself to some more eggs? Had the chicken wings not been satisfactory?

 

Suddenly the cambion went very still and started sniffing the air around him. His rumpled little head swivelled and swivelled around and then settled in the direction of the settee. Harry didn’t know what to do. Should he out himself? Feign sleep? 

 

The cambion came closer, stopped again, and then, as Harry watched on in awe, straightened his back and rose up on two legs like a human. And he was squinting straight at Harry.


	6. Little English

Harry’s sensitive back was starting to ache from keeping so still and it prompted him into an attempt to break the ice. He cleared his throat, as quietly as he could, and started, “I’m glad you like the clothes.” His voice came out hoarse and he was forced to bend forward into a series of violent coughs.

 

The cambion didn’t seem startled. In fact he moved a little closer, fiddling with the hem of the hoody. Had he understood Harry’s words?

 

"Do you- uh, know English?" Harry tried again once the fit had passed, letting the quilt slip around his waist as he pushed himself into a better position. "Human language?"

 

"Little." The cambion enunciated clearly but with a curious, lilting accent. His voice was soft and a little rough at the same time, perhaps due to lack of use. "Little English."

 

Harry was so excited he could scarcely sit still. At the moment he wasn’t even too bothered about his foot. “Great! My name is Harry, what’s yours?”

 

The cambion bounced a little where he was stood, as if he too was excited. “Name is-” and then a string of rapid, almost dolphin-like clicks and whistles came out.

 

"That- that’s your name?" Harry blurted out. He really shouldn’t have been shocked - he’d known cambions had their own languages based on sounds humans were incapable of making. Witnessing it in person was so much more intense, though. His mind was conjuring images: distant rain forests, entire hordes, colonies, of these beings. Going about hunting prey in the trees and the thick undergrowth, communicating with each other in whistles and clicks, bathing in the shallows of a meandering river with their young. Why hadn’t he ever taken an interest before? This was something different and unique and amazing.

 

"Yes, my name." The cambion’s long gleaming tail had curled protectively around his right leg like a snake. A prehensile tail, Harry remembered, the kind that could grab things on its own.

 

"I’m sorry, I don’t think I can say that. Do you have a nick name? Like, an easy name for human tongue?" Harry could see his question was making the cambion anxious for some reason - maybe he was offended - and continued quickly, "I’m really sorry I-"

 

"No good human name," the cambion interrupted. "Is ugly name." There was a dark expression on his face now.

 

"Your human name is ugly?" Harry repeated carefully. He hadn’t delved too deep into the history between cambions and humans, but he vaguely remembererd something about forced assimilation into human societies which had included giving them human names against their will. "Could you maybe choose something new? Any sounds that I would be able to- that I can make."

 

The cambion wet his lips, mulling it over. “Zayn,” he decided after a moment. “Like wrestler.” His hands loosened around the tail and it swooshed elegantly back behind him, swaying gently back and forth.

 

"Wrestler? I know nothing about wrestling. But Zayn it is. It’s nice to finally meet you, Zayn. Properly, I mean." Harry let a wide smile spread on his face, wishing he could somehow convey all his good will and interest towards the cambion in this simple gesture.

 

Zayn eyed him expressionlessly for a few seconds and then answered with an equally toothy smile of his own. It was both cute and slightly disturbing due to the razor sharp canines poking out of the corners of his mouth.

 

Harry huffed in happiness. Finally they were getting somewhere. “So, uh, Zayn,” he started, “would you like a cuppa? I feel like it’s the only proper way to get to know someone, having a chat over tea. I’ll just uh- try and get up first.” Easier said than done. His right leg had gone stiff as a board resting on the foot stool. He managed to drop it on the floor but pushing the rest of his body off the settee was a cumbersome operation. The quilt got tangled around his thighs and he wobbled forward, cheeks flaring up with hot blood. Some impression he was making on his new friend.

 

A hand with black claws closed around his arm and another on his shoulder, and Harry looked up in surprise to find Zayn right next to him. “Help?” the cambion asked unsurely, his hold loosening.

 

"Yes, that’s- that would be nice," Harry stuttered. He managed to distangle himself from the quilt and leaned heavily on Zayn as they hobbled towards the kitchen tools. Despite seeming so tiny when crouched on the floor, standing up Zayn was almost as tall as Harry and there was unexpected strength in his grip. The texture of his skin was smooth and shiny even under the dirt, almost leathery, like a snake’s. His hair too glowed even though the lounge was lit only by the harsh natural light of a late August morning coming in through the double doors. Harry couldn’t stop staring.

 

"Sit here?" The cambion gently pushed Harry against a stool and let go of his arm to flit on the other side of the kitchen island. It was incredible how fast he moved even standing up on two feet.

 

Harry eased up on the stool and gingerly propped his throbbing ankle on the circular metal foot rest at the bottom of the chair. The pain killers seemed to have finally started working at least because the pain wasn’t half as bad as when he’d woken up. He cleared his throat. “Would you like to put the kettle on? The tea bags are in the metal box right next to it. And there’s mugs in the cabinet to your right.”

 

Zayn peered blankly in the direction Harry nodded. “Kett- le?”

 

"Oh. Right. I guess you’ve never- Um. Take the kettle - that black thing in the corner - off the power base first. The round flat thing."

 

Harry started guiding the cambion through the deceptively process of making tea step by step, chuckling a little under his breath at how startled Zayn appeared when the kettle started rumbling louder and louder. Pouring tea into mugs turned out to be a task too difficult for someone with claws, however, and Harry quickly took over when the cambion spilled boiling water on himself and retreated into the corner to suck on his fingers with a betrayed scowl on his face.

 

"I’m sorry, I should have realised you wouldn’t be able to do that." Harry rummaged through his tea selection in the metal box, deciding on rooibos for Zayn and jasmine pearl for himself. "Here, now we just put the bags in and let them soak for a few minutes. You can- you can come back. It’ll be good, I swear, you have just wait for it cool down a little."

 

The cambion climbed reluctantly back on the stool and carefully pulled his mug closer to sniff in the steam. He didn’t seem to be impressed but didn’t push the mug away either, and Harry counted that as a win. He had a feeling his guest was of the picky sort.


	7. Disturbing Tale

Zayn drank his tea like a child, mug propped up between his palms instead of his fingers. Harry was afraid he was going to end up tipping it on his lap any moment, but the cambion seemed to have learned his lesson and was very careful with it. A kind of comfortable quiet had descended between them - such was the magic of tea - and Harry was loathe to break it, but he was bursting with questions he needed answered. “Zayn,” he started, thinking carefully ahead about which words he was going to use so the cambion would understand. “Where did you come from? Are you English? How long have you been here, in Camden?”

 

Zayn put down his mug. He seemed hesitant but Harry couldn’t tell if it was because he was reluctant to disclose his story or because he didn’t have the words for it. “I- come to England when small. Not baby, but small. I was with family.”

 

"Your family? You mean your parents?" Harry couldn’t help but prompt when the cambion fell silent.

 

"No, not blood family. Human family. It was woman, man, child. And me. We go into big house, not here. Up England." Zayn sounded calm as he spoke, drawing circular patterns on the table top with his claws. "I was meant as friend to child. But it died. So I was just me. Woman and man never speak to me, I stay away. Under the roof, on the roof when hot. They say I need to hide. So I hide every day. Not many people around so was easy."

 

"Wait, by up you mean in the north? What city? Town? Village?" If Harry was getting it right, a couple - most likely a wealthy one - had illegally brought an underage cambion into the country as amusement for their offspring and settled into some remote part of the North to keep it under wraps.

 

"Not sure. There was road and sign. I remember it. Like this." He drew the letters against the table, Y-O-R-K.

 

"York," Harry said slowly. It was a long way from York to London, three maybe four hundred kilometres. "How did you come here? And when?"

 

"One time woman and man are gone long. Help people - cook, cleaner - never talk to me. I get brave and leave for many hours, more and more. I follow the road for many days and then a big car comes and I go inside. I sleep and wake… up? I wake up in this big city and driver is angry with me. He takes my clothes and attacks. But I faster- I _am_ faster, and when he bleeds I run. Then I come here. When still warm and sun. Sunny.”

 

The cambion ends his halting story with a smile, clearly proud of himself for managing to put it all into words. Harry couldn’t say to be in quite as high spirits; in fact, he was struck with cold rage. Not only had this couple smuggled in a cambion, they had more or less abandoned it as soon as he no longer served a purpose, _and_ deprived him of company, healthcare and education. Why the hell hadn’t they just dropped him at social services the moment their child had died? Who could be so heartbreakingly callous and cruel as to treat an intelligent being that way?

 

"Zayn, what were the names of the man and the woman?"

 

The cambion went very still. “I don’t… remember.” His eyes were evading direct contact with Harry, straying somewhere in his hair, which Harry hadn’t bothered taming this morning. It was probably a little greasy too; Harry hadn’t washed the product off last night. But this was no time to be thinking about grooming issues. Zayn was obviously lying about not remembering the names of his kidnappers, but why? Did he… did he think Harry was going to hand him over to them?

 

"It’s not really that important right now. Those people do need to be held responsible for what they did, but it probably won’t be easy bringing them to justice so we might as well our time with this." Harry could tell Zayn wasn’t really able to follow his words from the blank look on his face and decided to completely change the topic. "On a completely different note, I read that cambions need to immerse themselves in water daily - that is, go under water every day. How uh- Do you do that?"

 

Zayn perked up. “I take like this,” he said and mimicked picking up something in a tight grip. “And then-” The cambion raised the fisted hand and moved it in a circle above his head making a hissing noise with his mouth. It took a moment for Harry to catch on.

 

"Garden hose?" Harry smiled at the mental image. "But isn’t it a little cold now for that?"

 

"Yes, very cold. So only do it one day and wait many days." The cambion hugged his arms self-consciously, and Harry wondered if the glow of his skin was actually a sign of bad health. Didn’t frogs at least need to stay moist just to keep breathing? Was it the same for cambions?

 

Zayn shot down his worries, though. “If not much water, then skin goes thick. Keeps water in to stay good. But it is… it’s not nice. Feels tight.” He waited to see if Harry had understood his words and when Harry nodded continued, “Best is if goes under water. In house there is…. bath.” His eyes flitted to somewhere behind Harry and back, expectant.

 

"Oh, of course." Harry wanted to smack himself; he really should have realised to suggest it himself. "Would you like to take a bath? Or shower, but perhaps a bath is better."

 

"Yes, I would like bath!" Zayn hopped dexterously off his stool as if this was all he’d been waiting for and rounded the counter.

 

Then the doorbell rang, demandingly. They both froze instinctively, locking eyes with each other in alarm for a tense second, until Harry realised how ridiculous it was. “Wait here, I’ll go see who it is,” he told the cambion and started limping to the foyer. Zayn retreated back into the kitchen nook, carefully out of sight.


	8. I Saw Him First

It was Jesy at the door, still in combat boots and wrapped in a fuzzy dressing gown, massive hair pulled into a bun on the top of her head. She still looked tired but smiled warmly when she saw Harry. “G’morning! I was hoping to catch you before you left for work. We didn’t change numbers last night? If the cambion shows up during the day we could keep you updated.”

 

Harry took a moment before he answered to ponder about the thought processes of rich people. It was almost 10 am. Why on earth would he still be home at this hour on a normal work day? “Actually, I’m not going to work today,” he sighed. “I hurt myself climbing the wall yesterday.” He lifted the bundled mess standing in for his foot, barely keeping a pathetic wince off his face. Were the pain killer wearing off already?

 

Jesy studied his foot seriously. “What did the doctor say?”

 

Harry chewed on the inside of his cheek warily. He didn’t want his sweet little bubble of denial to burst just yet. “I uh- why don’t you come inside? It’s quite chilly here. There’s someone you should meet anyway.” He hopped back into the apartment and Jesy followed, still eyeing his foot, now a little suspiciously.

 

Zayn was still crouched behind the kitchen island, claws clasped around the edge of the laminate. He sank even lower towards the floor when he spotted Jesy and his face tightened in recognition.

 

"Zayn, this is Jesy, she was with me leaving the clothes and the food. She lives in the big house." Harry grew hesitant as he spoke, realising his words had no discernible effect on Zayn. The cambion had his eyes locked on Jesy like expecting her to be attacked on sight.

 

"Is he- You’re the cambion then, eh? Nice to meet you, dear," Jesy said kindly. When Zayn continued to stare at her stonily the woman lowered her voice and turned to Harry. "I think he might have seen me training in the garden. I’ve done some target shooting too. It might have frightened him."

 

Harry blinked slowly. “Shooting? With guns?”

 

"Yes. I use a silencer to not disturb the neighbours." Jesy laughed taking in their faces. "Darlings, you don’t have to be alarmed, I am a licensed professional. I’m Niall’s bodyguard. Probably should have mentioned that yesterday."

 

"Bodyguard?" Zayn repeated softly, echoing Harry’s thoughts. Was it common for rich people to have live-in security? Especially the kind that looked like a Charlie’s Angel?

 

"Oh, you speak!" Jesy sauntered towards the kitchen nook hands casually in the vast pockets of her dressing gown. She’d taken her boots off at the door and appeared almost a completely different person from the one Harry met yesterday. "May I take a seat?"

 

Harry started to answer before realising the woman was smiling down at Zayn. The cambion nodded after a few tense heartbeats and followed closely at Jesy settling on a stool. “So, Zayn. Are you named after the wrestler by any chance?”

 

The cambion’s face brightened.

 

From there on the conversation flowed smoothly - as smooth as it could with Zayn’s limited English. It was established that the meat gifted to the cambion was chicken, something Zayn had never had before and couldn’t connect with an actual animal. Jesy dug out her phone and the two bowed over it, their talk turning into low muttering and occasional laughter.

 

Harry stood awkwardly in the middle of his lounge feeling more and more an outsider in his own home. Eventually he raised his voice to announce he was going to run Zayn his bath and was given a wave of dismissal by Jesy. He tried stomping into the bathroom but with his limp it became more of a crusty old pirate’s laboured swagger over the ship’s deck. He was so annoyed that he almost wished he hadn’t gone to talk with Niall in the first place. The cambion had come to _Harry_. Twice.

 

The water ran into the tub with an angry hiss and the bathroom gradually filled with steam, drowning Harry’s resentment and transforming it into self-pity. His foot throbbed. Maybe he really ought to have gone see a doctor the moment he woke up.

 

Then the door cracked open. “Harry?” Zayn’s dark head peeked in the steam.

 

"Yes," Harry answered sulkily, not moving from he was stood by the tub.

 

Zayn slipped fully inside, hovering next to Harry.

 

"Sorry, I may have made it too hot," Harry mumbled, a little regretful now. He screwed shut the faucets and tried the water, which was borderline boiling or so it felt.

 

"No," Zayn breathed with obvious satisfaction. "Is perfect." He pulled off his hoody and started tugging off his joggers too. A little shocked, Harry backed off towards the door, grabbing the wall for support when he slipped on the steam slickened floor. Mutely he watched the naked Zayn climb into the tub, agile like like a monkey, and submerge into the water. The tail slithered in last, inky black and meaty against the white porcelain.

 

"Uh, I’ll go get you clean towels and- clothes. There’s shampoo and bath salts and srubs on the rack at the foot of the tub, if you’d like any."

 

Zayn re-emerged and the claws of his feet screeched against the bottom of the tub as he scampered around to face Harry. His glossy wet hair had glued against the scalp and two small darkish brown horns could now be seen on the sides of his head. Harry flashed a quick smile and retreated out the door, carefully pressing it shut after.

 

Jesy was stood in front of the double doors arms crossed, with the air of someone on her way out. She turned around swiftly when she heard Harry limping back. “There you are. I’m going to head back now. Zayn seems to have taken a liking to you so I’ll leave you to it, but how about supper at Niall’s house? Niall won’t be up in hours but he’s dying to meet his garden guest.”

 

Harry tried his best to keep the relief from his voice when he answered, “Sounds great. We’ll be there. Did uh- did Zayn tell you too about where he came from?”

 

They passed the bathroom door on their into the foyer and Jesy glanced with a stern expression. “Yeah, I got a pretty good picture of how shit went down. We’ll have to look into dealing with it once Zayn trusts us more.” She phrased it almost as a question, which Harry appreciated. It was childish of him, but he felt like this was his adventure and he liked thinking he was in charge, if only nominally.

 

"Yeah, definitely. I suppose we’re not in an acute hurry with this."


	9. New Insights

After bidding Jesy goodbye Harry finally limped into his bedroom to rummage his closet for things Zayn might find agreeable. This time he also selected boxers, just in case. The tail might prove troublesome but the cambion had managed to tug on the joggers too. They would in any event have to map out the his sartorial preferences in more detail at some point.

 

Harry rapped on the bathroom door with vigour. Zayn didn’t seem to have much regard for modesty and Harry hadn’t ever really cared for it much either, but manners were manners.

 

Zayn had got down to business while Harry was gone: the pale green tiles were a flood of suds and water. The cambion was still sat in the tub, ostensibly sponging up the underside of his claws but from the tense axis of his shoulders and the manner in which his head was cocked to the side it was obvious he was gouging for Harry’s reaction. He was in for a bit of an anticlimax, however, because all Harry did was remove his socks and slippers, roll up his pyjama bottoms and wade in to place his bearings by the sink.

 

In truth, Harry was a little out of words. Zayn was a whole lot thinner than he’d expected up close. The ridge of his spine poked through the skin in knobby little bumps. “Zayn,” he started quietly. The cambion moved closer and they locked eyes. Harry forgot all about the sudsy floor, the clean stack of linen under his palms, and his great adventure. Zayn’s inhumanly lustrous black eyes had turned into golden brown, impossibly, in the thick yellow light of the bathroom. They looked gentle. Like cow’s eyes but with more depth and presence and knowing. They seemed to maintain a world, an entire universe of secrets.

 

Harry realised that until now he’d considered Zayn only in terms and frame of his own life, a quaint little incident and distraction to Harry’s dull, grey existence. At best he’d likened the cambion to a stray animal, despite all he’d learned the creatures’ nature and history. Zayn was a person, a someone. With thoughts and opinions and aspirations, mostly unknown to Harry, who’d heard his tale but not listened. A flush smeared his cheeks and he evaded his eyes, finally extracting himself from the clothes and the sink, fiddling with his sides as he spoke, “I’ll leave you to it, then. Shout if you need something. There’s… moisturiser - lotion - in that tall yellow bottle. It might be good for your skin after all that soap. I never use it myself. My sister got it for me.”

 

One more uneasy flicker of a smile and then Harry splashed his way out, Zayn following his progress wordlessly. The look on his face might have been thoughtful but Harry had decided to be careful with his assumptions from now on and focused instead on his own feelings. In the lounge he sank in his rickety old granddad chair like an old man himself, glad to have a moment for himself to sort it out. Why did it suddenly feel like everything had turned topsy-turvy? Nothing had changed except for his own perceptions, which was normal considering he’d only just met Zayn.

 

Maybe this was realisation sinking in? He had a cambion under in his roof! A cambion that was also a person. A person in need of help.

 

No there was something else there as well. A tiny little fact he’d noted the very first time his eyes had fallen on Zayn, but which had been duly dispatched due to its inappropriateness. It occurred to him now, however, that maybe it wasn’t inappropriate or an impossible, perverted notion. And yet.

 

The heavy sounds of water spattering on the floor in the bathroom alerted Harry to his persisting host duties and he heaved himself back on his feet to fetch cans of lemonade from the fridge. His heart was racing, ridiculously. It took another ten minutes for Zayn to emerge from his bath, pink and fresh-faced in his soft cotton trousers (much too loose for him) and buttoned up henley. Harry had spent all of it braced against the ledge of the kitchen counter staring into the distance through the blinds covering the tall eight-paned Georgian window. He may or may not have been ruminating on the whether Zayn was currently slipping on the boxers.

 

"How was the bath?" he enquired lightly, extending an arm with a lemonade can towards the cambion.

 

"Good," Zayn answered breathily, clutching the can with two hands and then heading towards the settee, which creaked when he plopped down on it on his back. His bare feet remained propped up on the arm rest, perhaps to give his tail room to breathe, and Harry turned to regard them with curiosity. The claws crowning his toes were so thick it appeared unlikely scissors would of much use in trimming them. Other than that they appeared the same as human feet, but Harry remembered scrolling by a passage that mentioned cambions’ superb climbing abilities so perhaps there were traits not apparent via casual inspection.

 

"Jesy invited us for supper at Niall’s house, is that alright?"

 

"More chicken?" Zayn asked languidly. The can of lemonade lay on his his belly, perfectly perpendicular even as the flesh beneath it rose and fell. Perhaps he thought it a cooling device and had applied it where he was hottest.

 

"There might be chicken," Harry conceded.

 

"Good."

 

After that a vast expanse silence reigned. Minutes trickled by and Harry monitored his breathing, wondering if awkward silences were a foreign concept to cambions. He fixated on the can of lemonade, then the limp tail that had fallen to the side of the settee. The cambion’s feet too had slackened in opposite directions. Harry exhaled deeply as light snoring grunts filled the air. The cambion was asleep.


	10. An Interval

Harry covered Zayn with a woollen blanket he kept at hand in the storage space built into his Ikea coffee table and sank into the armchair next to the settee with his laptop. He might as well work till they had to leave; he still had the project from yesterday to finish and while a swollen ankle might stall Liam’s demands, it would have to be completed eventually anyway.

 

Harry checked his email first, anxiously. There was nothing from Liam, however, just a ridiculously detailed report by Perrie of the various stages of denial, horror and reluctant acceptance that passed on their boss’s face when she’d told him Harry was sick. There’d been no mention of the project and no one had been saddled with extra work, curiously enough. It was Perrie’s theory that a part of Liam’s brains had shut down to deal with the shock and the after effects would manifest themselves in delay.

 

Harry couldn’t say to all that bothered either way and typed as much in his reply to her. He hadn’t really thought about it before but he actually spent the majority of his time off work worrying about work and it was making him chronically exhausted. It was like he was never truly _off_ work at all. Strange that it had taken a cambion and a broken ankle for him to gain some perspective. Liam may have been a horrible boss and Harry’s work not only monotonous but mostly pointless, but it was Harry who was allowing it to rule his life.

 

Working from home was rather pleasant. Harry’s thoughts ran more smoothly, he came up with seemingly endless amount of nifty ideas on how to present this data or those statistics in graphics, and he summary almost wrote itself. Admittedly, without the constant stream of noise and people he did feel a little lonely and several times raised his head from the screen to comment on this or that random thing to Grimmy or Ed, whose cubicles were right next to his, only to remember his current whereabouts and sole slumbering companion.

 

Perhaps working like this permanently wasn’t quite suited to his sensibilities in the social sense but it did boost up his efficiency levels. In just under three hours he managed to wrap up the entire report and send it off to Liam, keeping his accompanying words short and to the point, with no mention of willingness to spend any more of his day off work at work.

 

Harry spent the next half hour mopping up the bathroom floor, taking a shower of his own, and getting dressed. His hair was dedicated an unusual fifteen minutes (which ended with groans of frustration and a scarf wrapped around his forehead) and his dust grey work trousers were flung aside in favour of tight dark jeans. And while the desire to impress was a motivator in his efforts, it was mostly for his own pleasure that he bothered with it.

 

Zayn was not easy to rouse awake. In fact, for a few puzzled moments Harry entertained the theory that the cambion was in some sort of dormant state akin to hibernation, so immobile and unresponsive was he to all Harry’s coaxing and gentle joggling. The Internet quickly dismissed that hypothesis, but from an article concerning the major physiological differences between humans and cambions Harry learned another potentially useful factoid: that a cambion’s tail was by far their most sensitive body part.

 

Apprehensively, Harry put down his laptop to hover over the settee and the cambion’s ever dormant form again. Truth be told, the tail creeped him out. It was like its own separate being, its slithery movements so unnaturally fluid that he could barely stand to look at it. Strangely enough, he was fine with snakes - not particularly fond of them but not terrified either. A snake attached to a human-like being, however… It felt uncomfortable in a way he couldn’t put into words. He also wondered if Zayn would be averse to being touched in such a potentially intimate place.

 

Despite his misgivings he curled his fingers lightly around the half-way mark of the tail, and tugged. Zayn twisted abruptly to the side to face the back of the settee, and the tail came alive, squirming under Harry’s fingers like an eel. It was unsettling and Harry almost let go in disgust, but they were late and this seemed to be working. “Zayn,” he said and tugged again, a little harder. The cambion twisted violently around again, in the same direction so that the tail slithered out of Harry’s hands and rolled up around Zayn’s torso. He was facing Harry now, and his eyes were wide open, almost frantic as they searched for answers in the human’s face.

 

"I’m- so sorry," Harry stuttered in shock, cradling the hand he had used to tug the tail. It felt a little moist. "We are going to be late…. for supper. At Niall’s?"

 

Zayn sucked in a few more shaky breaths through his nose before he spoke, tightly, “No touching tail.”

 

"I’m really sorry, I won’t do it again," Harry apologized again, silently berating himself. What was wrong with him? He couldn’t even blame this one on thoughtlessness since it had actually occurred to him he might be crossing boundaries. "I should have known better than to- than to. I’m sorry."

 

Zayn blinked and suddenly his face softened. “Fine. Now go to Niall?”

 

***

 

Niall was a bundle of energy greeting them. He expressed his seemingly genuine condolences about Harry’s foot and wrapped his arm affably around Zayn’s back as he toured them through his sprawling house, from one vast room to another. Jesy stayed behind to finish setting up the dining room table, and when they finally meandered back from the depths of the house she was holding close a slender woman in a neat wine-coloured shift dress and high-heeled boots. The two women extricated themselves from each other with tender, private smiles, and Jesy cleared her throat.

 

"Harry, Zayn, this is Leigh-Anne, my girlfriend. I should have mentioned she was coming earlier, but it was a last minute thing, really." Jesy’s eyes flickered briefly to Harry.

 

Leigh-Anne smiled politely. “Hello, everyone. I can’t stay long, actually, I’m on my lunch break.” She too gave Harry an unreadable look and then her eyes inevitably fixated on Zayn, lurking behind the rest by the entrance to the dining-room. “Oh, are you the cambion, then?”


	11. Feast

Harry froze uncertainly, but Jesy raised a placating hand. "Don't worry, I only told Leigh in the strictest confidence and because I thought she might be helpful. She's a doctor, see. And won't tell anyone."

 

"Oh, I would never!" Leigh-Anne hurried to echo her, sincerely. "Jesy, you need to learn to consult other people before making decisions. Lord, you can take a major out of the army, but try taking the major out of the girl...!" She evaded the affectionate pinch Jesy tried to give on her bum with an affronted shriek and a retaliatory slap.

 

Harry resolved to tentatively like her. He'd pegged her the cool, no nonsense type on first sight on account of her subdued, almost severe style of dress, but as she spoke her smooth mannequin face thawed and grew animated with candid warmth. It was in any event all kinds of hypocritical of Harry to make assumptions about people's office wear considering the tedious array of grey suits he sported at work week in week out.

 

"I'm Zayn." The cambion extended a long, slender arm to Leigh-Anne, which she graciously accepted, pointedly unperturbed by the sight of his sharp claws encircling her hand.

 

"Nice to meet you. Jesy thought you might need a checkup, but I can tell just by looking at you that you're fine. Perhaps you could do with a few extra pounds on you. I'm by no means an expert on cambion health."

 

"Well let's start putting on those pounds and tuck in!" Jesy exclaimed briskly and shooed towards the sturdy oval-shaped table laden with silverware, baskets of bread and fruit, a giant pot of steaming soup, a whole roast chicken, an array of seafood ranging from giant prawns to oysters and scallops, and various kind of sauce to dip them into.

 

"You really went all out for us," Harry commented as he swooped in to pull out a chair for Leigh-Anne and sat down next to her while Zayn and Jesy grabbed chairs on the other side of the table opposite to them. 

 

"Not at all. This is every day in the Horan household," Niall said magnanimously and took his rightful place at the end of the table on a bulky chair of thick dark wood not unlike a throne in its grandiosity and far bigger than the rest. "This is a family heirloom," he explained to Harry noticing his looks. "My grandad's dad made it with his own bare hands! He was a carpenter until he dropped everything back home and travelled to America to join the gold rush in 1897. He left quite a fortune to me grandparents, who doubled it during their life times and then left it all to me. Skipped a generation so now I have a duty to quadri-? Quadr- To double it twice." He cracked up at his own fumble of words, popped open one of the bottles of expensive beer lined neatly on a tray, and then answered the question Harry was too polite to pose. "Never saw my parents. Or can't remember them anyway. Dad didn't want to be a dad, mum died of a broken heart, or so they say. That's life for ya." 

 

"I don't remember parents, too," Zayn spoke up hesitantly before any potential awkwardness could ensue. "Maybe there were no parents. I don't know. Someone teached me cambion language."

 

"I guess your human parents were pretty rubbish, eh?"

 

Harry balked a little at Niall's unabashed directness, but apparently the Irishman's tangibly affable personality put the cambion at ease because Zayn only nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, I think... When I was little they tell me I make the baby sick so I think I'm bad. That I must... to punish? No, to... not eat, sleep in bed." 

 

"That's horrible!" Niall and Leigh-Anne blurted unanimously, which had the cambion visibly uncomfortable judging by the way he hunched between his knees he'd raised to his chest on the chair.

 

"Why don't we just eat now and leave all the heavier stuff for later, before everything cools down," Jesy raised her voice authoritatively and grabbed a large knife to carve up the chicken. "Might actually make a dent into this pile for once with five mouths feasting on it. Neither of us can cook but we eat like a platoon worth of soldiers; got a catering service on speed-dial and everything. Whenever there's leftovers we donate them to soup kitchens, so at least nothing goes to waste even if we overestimate our needs," she chatted with her warm, enveloping voice that reminded Harry of textured soil and unwound all their faces into pleasant smiles. 

 

From there the meal progressed smoothly, with Niall interrogating Zayn on opinion on the every single dish on display with great interest while Harry fell into a conversation with Leigh-Anne. "Why do you suppose Zayn came to you? In your house?" the woman asked once Harry was done detailing the way he'd first come into contact with Zayn.

 

"You know, I haven't really thought about that. We think he was a little intimidated by Jesy, though, due to her training in the garden."

 

A sudden, suspiciously dirty smile spread on Leigh-Anne's lips and she bowed her head over her food to let it diffuse before replying, lightly, "Yeah, I can imagine." She took a bite out of the feta-walnut salad she and Harry had both chosen in lieu of the (mostly) heftier options available. "Jesy can be intense."

 

"Have you dated long? I thought, for a bit, that maybe Jesy and _Niall_ -"

 

Harry was interrupted by Leigh-Anne choking on her salad in laughter. "Ni- Niall?" she gasped once having downed a mouthful of water to clear her throat.

 

"Yes?" said blond man turned to them in askance, blue eyes bright, and yes alright, Harry had to admit that the thought of him and Jesy was a tad... unlikely, looking back on it. "Nothing, we just, nothing. Never mind."

 

"Jesy and I have dated for almost half a year now," Leigh-Anne said once Niall had gone back to entertaining Zayn. "Seems much longer, though. It was love at first sight, really, so it seems like we've been loved up forever. I'd tell you all about it, but I actually have to start getting back to work soon. My lunch hour is literally just an hour, so. Before I go, though, Jesy mentioned something about a foot...? Yours, judging by that poor excuse of a wrap you have around your ankle."

 

"Oh, right." Harry glanced down instinctively and flushed a little at how ridiculous his attempts at a home remedy must have looked. "I did - do - intend to go see a doctor about it, I just... pushed it back a little. D'you think I might have more damage to it? It's only a sprain, I'm pretty sure, even if really painful."

 

"Hard to say. Let's go somewhere where I can take a look. At the very least I can write you a prescription for proper pain killers."

 

Harry glanced at Zayn, who was laughing at delight at something Niall had said while simultaneously stuffing pieces of chicken into his mouth with his bare hands, and nodded. "Yeah, sure, you're very kind." Clearly Zayn had, again, struck up an effortless connection with someone other than Harry.

 

They retreated from the lofty dining room into the low-ceilinged rectangular lounge with its evenly spread out collection of cube-like armchairs and divans. The day was bright in that colourless, ashy London-in-September sort of way and flooded the room in a gentle light unhindered through the glass patio doors. The pool was covered and the wild, bulging garden beyond the wooden deck appeared subdued. There were hints of deep yellow amidst the foliage. Just like that summer was packing her bags and Harry had barely known she was there.

 

Harry lowered himself stiffly onto one of the divans, like an old man with in an advanced state of arthritis, while Leigh-Anne folded herself gingerly on the floor before it to undo the wrapping around his foot. 

 

"Let's see, take this away... and this..." She blinked at the sight of Harry's finally bare foot and actually drew back a little with a deep frown on her forehead. "Oh shit."

 

 


	12. Unfolding Truths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your comments!! I'm too lazy to respond to them individually, but I appreciate them all <3
> 
> I had to do quite a bit of research for this chapter - please don't take anything in it as fact, however, as I have changed some details about the UK law for the purposes of this story.
> 
> Also, I promise that next chapter will be much more fun :)

 

"Is it really so bad?" Harry peered down at his swollen ankle, instantly doused in cold fear when he saw how much worse it looked since he last looked at it.

 

Leigh-Anne turned the foot gingerly around in her hands and shook her head grimly when Harry objected with a surprised wail. "With this amount of swelling and bruising you definitely ought to have gone to see a doctor asap. This needs an MRI to see if there's cartilage damage. Bone bruising is guaranteed. A sprain like this will take several weeks to heal and you might need physical therapy. Can you put any weight on it at all?"

 

"Not really," Harry said faintly. "I'm such an idiot. I thought... I wanted to believe it wasn't serious."

 

"Well, let's not jump to conclusions. Let's get it checked out first. We have a walk-in centre at St Mary's, I could drive you there right now? I'm not a GP myself, but I could maybe get you bumped ahead in the queue, plus I have a parking space right next to the entrance, so you wouldn't have to walk much at all."

 

Harry opened his mouth but whatever he was about to say was aborted by Niall, who'd stridden into the room with a tray full of merrily clinking glasses: "Bah, NHS! They'll have you waiting for hours, Styles! I'll ring up my doctor, he'll get you checked out pronto _and_ get you an appointment with specialist first thing tomorrow morning if you need one. I'll treat you."

 

Leigh-Anne gave him a cool look down her nose even as she was sat on the floor. "The waiting times at St Mary's are perfectly reasonable. He'll be seen in under an hour, I am certain. No need to throw around your money."

 

Niall answered her cold words with a good-natured but dismissive laugh. "Rubbish, that's what friends are for, for spoiling! You don't mind, do you Styles?"

 

They bore their eyes into Harry, who stuttered, "Well, I- do a little. I'd be more comfortable going with Leigh-Anne, to be honest." After all, he barely knew Niall.

 

A half-betrayed, half-baffled frown rumpled Niall's open face but it melted off as soon as it appeared. He laughed again, with genuine bonhomie as far as Harry could tell, and settled down the tray on one of the square-shaped, low on the ground coffee tables. Like everything else in the house, they too were designed with comfort and functionality in mind above all else, arguably in contrast with the lavish scope of the property overall.

 

"You can't go just yet, though, we still haven't talked about Zayn's situation at all," protested Jesy, entering the room with another tray, this one laden with giant bowls of ice cream. Zayn followed right on her heels, the inhumanly smooth stride of his steps striking in contrast. "I went to the trouble of making you my special sundaes." She set the tray down and mushed her cheek into her girlfriend in a sideways hug. "Fifteen minutes, baby?"

 

"Alright alright, but you're going to get me sacked one of these days! Some of my co-workers are already calling me Late-arse Leigh," Leigh-Anne grumbled and sank into a loveseat with Jesy tugged into her side.

 

Zayn climbed on an arm-chair next to Harry's where he perched tensely in what was, presumably, his natural way of sitting whilst Niall dispensed drinks and sundaes and then sat on the arm of a chair smiling at them all in the most engaging manner. He was dressed in all white - a polo shirt, tweed trousers and a Ralp Lauren wool cardigan with wooden buttons - and his blond hair was flat and neatly parted, all of which reminded Harry of a grown-up Richie Rich. It wasn't just his looks, either, but his entire persona, both in terms of what Harry had read about him in magazines and what he had himself been personally exposed to. Eager to appear accessible and down-to-earth but brought up in circumstances too far removed from those of most people to truly be able to present himself as such.

 

"So," Jesy cleared her throat. "After Zayn and I talked this morning, I made some phone calls. Now, The General Register Office holds birth and adoption certificates that can be seen by anyone with detailed information about the certificates, but since we don't currently know said details and getting to them is going to take a while, I took a little short-cut and contacted a friend who works for the government. Zayn, are you fine with me sharing what I found out with everyone?"

 

Zayn only nodded quickly and continued scooping up his ice cream with an unreadable expression.

 

"Alright. Basically, Zayn was either legally adopted or kidnapped in Pakistan by a wealthy English couple, Ben and Madeline Winston, who then smuggled him into England posing as a human child under the name Lloyd Winston twelve years ago. It's impossible to know how shady the adoption was in Pakistan - it might have well been perfectly legal since adopting cambion children is in fact possible under Pakistan law - but either way they had to adopt him again in England because no adoption made in Pakistan is valid here.

 

In order for them to adopt Zayn in the UK they had to have put him through a medical and have both a Health Visitor and a social worker periodically visit him for six months - I don't know how the hell they managed that, but I imagine their wealth played into it. Actually, I don't know how they managed to adopt him in _Pakistan_ to begin with since it is apparently very difficult for a white Christian couple."

 

"Wait, just-" Harry interrupted slowly. "They _adopted_ Zayn, openly? I thought they, like, smuggled him in in the boot of their car or something."

 

Jesy shrugged. "He is on record as their son. As a human named Lloyd Winston, that is. As I said, I have no idea how they managed it."

 

"But what about school?" Harry asked her and then turned to Zayn when it occurred to him how rude it was talking about the cambion like he wasn't there.

 

"I had teacher," Zayn said with a thin, distant voice. His hair was a curtain around his face and there was melted ice cream smeared at the corners of his mouth. "At home. But he left when baby died."

 

Harry remembered Zayn drawing the letters of "York" on his kitchen counter. "Did you at least learn to read and write?"

 

"Yes, but forgot many words."

 

"Well, we'll sort that out soon," Jesy said firmly. "In the meanwhile what we really need to do is contact a solicitor. This is a complicated case and I think we need an expert on our side before we approach any government officials."

 

"Oh, I know the perfect person!" Niall raised his voice. "Jade Thirlwall. Specializes in human rights law, one of the very best in the country. Also a good friend of mine. I'll give her a ring right now, if that's alright with you, Zayn?"

 

The cambion looked at each of their expectant faces in return, eyes big and imploring, and nodded tersely. "Yes. Thank you."

 

Harry reached out and placed a hand on his forearm, lightly. "You'll be alright, Zayn. I'm... really glad to have met you. You're welcome to stay at my apartment, by the way. If you like. It's getting cold outside."

 

Zayn made a strange clicking noise with his tongue and inspected him with squinted eyes through his hair. "I already decided I stay before. Don't need permission."

 

Jesy laughed and Harry felt heat spreading on his cheeks, not so much because of the words but the sly curve of the cambion's lips and the impish little glint in the dark of his eyes. "Oh okay," he said feebly.

 


	13. Hospitality

In the end Harry was seen almost immediately at the hospital, sorted a follow-up appointment two days hence, and sent home with proper bandaging, a prescription for stronger medication, and a pair of crutches. The X-ray results would come in the morning and reveal the true extent of the damage caused. Leigh-Anne was practically aglow with victorious glee when she escorted Harry into a taxi and made him promise to praise the efforts of NHS in Niall's presence. From what Harry could gather Leigh-Anne and Niall were not on bad terms in general as much as they differing viewpoints on ideological questions. As Leigh-Anne put it, "Niall is quite harmless as far as rich people go and I appreciate his generosity towards Jesy, but don't make the mistake of thinking he's just like us. How could he be, with his background?"

 

When Harry limped through the front door of his apartment, making quite a racket at it with the crutches and everything, he was delighted to find Zayn sat on his settee, on his own. The television was on and the rest of the apartment was mostly in the dark, Zayn a tiny, unmoving lump where he was perched. At the lights flickering on he turned to blink sleepily at Harry and offered him a tentative "hello".

 

"Left Niall and Jesy at the house, then?" Harry asked curiously while trying to extricate his healthy foot out of its shoe. He'd half-expected Niall to persuade Zayn into staying at his much bigger house instead of Harry's. And it probably would have made more sense, too, but somehow Harry had known intuitively that Zayn would rather stay somewhere... smaller.

 

"I left when Niall gets long call and Jesy goes out. Niall say we go shopping tomorrow. He buys me clothes."

 

"Oh? Well, that's- nice of him. Would you like me to come with you or-?"

 

"You can come," Zayn acquiesced and bestowed Harry a magnanimous nod that might or might not have been in jest. "If foot is fine?"

 

"I was told to rest, but I can just sit in the corner or something while you model things for me." Harry cringed inwardly the moment the words are out, worried about how Zayn would react to his attempt of a joke, but the cambion only regarded him silently with his softly glimmering eyes, seemingly neither appreciative or disapproving. Face warm, Harry retreated into the kitchenette and busies himself with getting down mugs, the kettle, tea, biscuits. After a brief inventory of the state of his fridge and cupboards he also piled up an array of snacks on a tray, from macadamia nuts and tangerines to sausage rolls and tiny packets of goat cheese he didn't remember having bought. Rather absurdly, the nervous tingling in his gut was the exact same he got when he was trying to impress a date, not that he'd had one in ages. 

 

He set the tray down on a tiny little antique trolley he'd found in a charity shop somewhere and rolled it across the linoleum and in between the settee and one of the arm-chairs. "Here, if you're hungry. I didn't know what you like so I gathered just about everything. Of course you're free to help yourself to whatever you like on your own, by the way. Although I suppose you might not need permission for that either..." he trailed off a little dryly.

 

Zayn only glanced at him and rummaged nimbly through the tray, nibbling on bits of everything in turn, while Harry poured them tea. After thoroughly sampling all the food items on offer, he finally settled on the goat cheese and sausage rolls, which he speared with each of his claws so he could munch on them while reclining back along the length of the sofa. Harry was truly tempted to ask for a picture of the glorious sight, but decided against it. They'd only just met, barely more than 24 hours ago, even if it didn't feel like it at all.

 

"What did you think Niall and Jesy, then?" he inquired instead, genuinely curious to hear the cambion's opinion.

 

Zayn chewed thoughtfully on a piece of cheese, one eye still on the news currently on the screen. "Niall is rich and lazy, Jesy is strong and a little sad. I like them."

 

Harry's eyebrows sprung up and he fumbled for words. "Jesy's sad?"

 

Zayn shrugged.

 

"How would you describe me then?"

 

"You're soft."

 

"Oh," Harry after he realised it was all he was going to get. "Well, I've been called worse things."

 

They watched the rest of the newscast in (a mostly comfortable) silence and when Zayn immersed himself in The Gadget Show that followed, flat out ignoring any further attempts at conversation, Harry took the opportunity to flip out his phone for the first time since morning. He sent out a quick update to Perrie about his foot and then chatted with Grimmy and Ed, who made a great show of exaggerating the immense impact Harry's sick day had had on the workplace ("Truly with deep sadness we were forced to gaze upon the empty hole left behind by our favourite bumbling floppy-haired buffoon", lamented Grimmy drolly). Perrie texted him as well, essentially telling him to piss off and then immediately after offered to bring him take out and anything else he needed the next day. Harry declined quickly, citing his need to rest; if Perrie showed up, he might have to introduce her to Zayn and for now it was probably best keeping the precarious situation among as few people as possible.

 

At eight Harry got up to wash the dishes and Zayn soon trailed after him to watch him place each item in its correct place. Deciding he might as well do a proper welcome tour slash breakdown of the house rules, he cleared his throat and put on his Professional / Power Point Presentation Voice. He started with the kitchen, proceeded with the cleaning and linen cupboards, briefly touched on the subject of the bathroom (and the preferred, sud-free state of the tile flooring in it), and finally ended the tour with the bedroom, which brought up a topic Harry really ought to have considered before: sleeping arrangements.

 

"Zayn," he started slowly, distracted by a wholly unwanted image of himself on the bed with a curled-up Zayn tugged into his side, "would you mind horribly to sleep on the settee for now? It's quite comfortable and can be spread out into a bed. I would totally give you the bed if not for my leg. In fact, it's probably better that you do take the bed once I get to back to work so I don't wake you in the morning."

 

The cambion nodded eagerly. "I can sleep anywhere."

 

"Good. I'll go set it up. I usually go to bed by 9.30 at the latest since I get up so early, is that-"

 

"I will be quiet," Zayn said solemnly. "Or maybe I sleep too."

 

"Okay. There's headphones for the telly, if you want to watch late at night. But yeah, I'll go get linen and- yeah." He turned to go, but one more thought called him back. "Zayn. When you said I'm soft... is that why you came into  _my_ home? I mean, did you see me before you came here or was it at random that you chose my apartment?"

 

"I watched you many times and then came in some times and then I decided to see what happen if I stay longer and longer."

 

The cambion had picked up a small porcelain cat statue from a shelf and didn't look up as he spoke, absently, but it was all Harry had wanted to hear. He nodded to himself. "Alright. Alright."

 

With that, he left Zayn to further investigate his collection of random items filling out what was supposed to be a built-in bookshelf. At the cupboard, safely out of the cambion's sight, he let himself sink into the soft depths of its insides to briefly question his sanity. He was in actual fact letting a completely strange man shack up in his home with zero guarantee that he was a trustworthy, or indeed well-meaning, individual. And yet, when he looked at the cambion, try as he might, he couldn't make himself conflate reason with what he saw and felt. From the very beginning, despite the wild first impression Harry'd gotten of Zayn, all his senses had been clamouring the same message - _protect him_. _Help him._

 

And help Zayn Harry would. He unfurled himself out of the cupboard and began briskly sorting through sheets.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't get quite where I wanted with this chapter, but in the next one they'll finally go shopping! You shall get it by Sunday, I should think.


	14. Rise and Shine

Harry rolled out of bed with a fuzzy brain at 7 am sharp despite having turned off his alarm and spent a long moment blinking in front of his bathroom mirror, gaining his whereabouts. It was probably for the better, keeping his usual schedule during his sick days, but lord could he get used to this. Not having to go anywhere in the morning. Or at least not to the Office From Hell.

 

He yawned with vigour, ruffled his hair that technically needed a cut but which he'd secretly wanted to let grow out and past his shoulders since he was small so he kept putting off calling up a salon and steadfastly ignored Liam's stiff nostrils flaring his way, and hopped into the living room, relying on the wall for support as the pain his foot had not dissipated along with the miseries of the soul. It was better, though, no longer a constant throbbing pulse in the shape of an ankle but more of a dull, superficial ache.

 

Zayn was huddled in a corner of the settee, face smushed into the crook of an arm rest. The blankets Harry had heaped on him lay haphazardly all over the floor and the coffee table, only a corner of one tangled around the cambion's feet, the fabric punctured by a pair of claws. Harry let his eyes linger on the gaunt, brown lengths of Zayn's arms, exposed and accentuated by the too large t shirt he'd chosen for the night, and the lazy curl of his tail on the rumpled sheets. He tried to recall what Jesy had said about the timeline of Zayn's adoption; twelve years? That would make Zayn just short of twenty or so.

 

"Seems about right," Harry murmured to himself. Zayn had the air of an adolescent, although cambions did mature faster than humans and Harry didn't have much of a concept of cambion behaviour in general and then there was of course Zayn's tentative grasp of English that made him seem both child-like and a little... simple. Harry tried once again picture Zayn as a human male, without the tail and the horns and the mannerisms - the way he sat and walked and picked up things - but it was like squinting at the sun. Even as the cambion slept he reminded Harry more of a lizard or a cat than a human with the way his spine and legs were bent.

 

Restlessly, Harry turned away from the curious sight and busied himself with scrubbing up the hob, backsplash and the wok - long overdue chores he'd been too busy/tired to get around to. Since there was little worry of Zayn being disturbed in his sleep, he didn't hold back on making noise and even chanted an enthusiastic mantra of "wax on, wax off!" as he moved rags over the burners with both hands as if the queen herself was on her way over to inspect his work. Strange how just the presence of another person was enough to kick him into gear like this. It'd been the same since he could remember; if it hadn't been for study groups, he'd have probably failed most of his courses at uni.

 

An hour and a half later all the surfaces in the kitchen were spotless, the dishwasher running, the refrigerator defrosting, the spice rack re-arranged, recyclables sorted, and the only reason Harry wasn't breaking out the hoover and expanding his cleaning campaign into the sitting-room was his foot. It was a little past nine and he entertained the idea of tackling the bathroom next, but he had a long day ahead and an entire weekend available for such endeavours. So, he sat down, put the kettle on and made an attempt on cracking a Japanese crossword puzzle, a nonogram, in a magazine Gemma had sent him 'for relaxation'. He kept zoning out, however, and to his relief it finally occurred to him to sort out Zayn's clothes for the day, outerwear in addition to the usual tee and joggers combo. Any of his coats would probably fit Zayn just fine, but what sort of shoes could the cambion possibly wear with his claws? Some of Harry's bigger boots might be able to accommodate for them, but would they be comfortable? Was the cambion, a digitigrade, at all capable of walking in any sort of proper shoes?

 

With elated spirit if not gait, Harry hobbled from one room to another, between the linen cupboard, the sturdy oak wardrobe in the foyer and his bedroom, pulling out more and more forgotten items of clothing from winters past. He admitted freely to being bit of a hoarder, which went poorly with his reckless spending habits and second-hand sales addiction. In the past year he didn't think he'd left a single item that had caught his eye in the shop. Designer clothing with retailers' tags attached, a set of boxed new brass candle holders, ten pink and white transferware salad plates for 50p a piece, an embroidered Guatemalan pouch bag, and a 1960s psychedelic inflatable pillow were just some of the things that had seemed like great purchases at the time but had admittedly not seen as much daylight as he'd hoped. It was like therapy, though, combing rack after rack on lazy Sunday mornings, sometimes for hours on end, lost in his happy place with no Mondays, deadlines or Liam's "URGNENT!!!" e-mails.

 

In the end, the only pair of shoes in Harry's rough estimate roomy enough for Zayn's claws were salmon-coloured Uggs he'd picked from the side of a road after deeming them intact if a little beaten down. Whether the cambion would agree to wear them was a different matter altogether, albeit of secondary concern considering that Zayn hadn't even woken up yet and it was almost nine thirty. They'd agreed to meet Niall and Jesy outside around ten, and if Zayn wanted a bath and breakfast before that...

 

Harry went into the sitting-room and leaned once again over the cambion to study his only half-visible face, which seemed just as peacefully aslumber as hours before. There was no touching his tail again, not after yesterday, but there was one method to be tried that had only half-materialized in Harry's head while he'd been clearing out the fridge and which now revealed itself fully. Cambions had a very keen sense of smell, on par with cats, and it was a theory worth putting to test that a strong smell might be enough to arouse one from their death-like sleep. It was the week-old lemons in his fridge that had inspired the idea and he fetched one now, cutting it in half and squeezing it lightly above Zayn's head to better bring out the acidic aroma.

 

At first nothing happened and Harry let the lemon drop lower, to hover right over the side of the cambion's nose, flat against the settee arm rest. It twitched slightly, rapid like an eyelid spasm. Encouraged, Harry jammed the fruit into his nostrils, with dramatic results. Zayn jerked his violently back, face scrunched up, a howl like the screeching wail of some otherworldly being erupting from his throat. Shocked, Harry fell back against the coffee table, just in time to avoid Zayn's tail lashing in his direction like a whip.

 

"Zayn! It's just me. I'm-" Something squishy hit him in the face and he cursed as bitter lemon juice made contact with his eyes.

 

" _Die!_ " the cambion shrieked.

 

A pillow hit Harry next and he ducked down on the floor in surrender. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry, okay?! It's almost ten, we promised to meet Jesy and N-" An avalanche of sheets and blankets supplemented by what sounded like newspapers buried him and his words and was followed by angry creaking of the settee and soon after faint clicking noises across the sitting-room floor. Harry emerged from his cocoon just in time to hear the bathroom door slam shut.

 

"Well. Crossing _that_ off the list."

 

Slowly, he got up, folded the bedding into a pile on the coffee table and put the settee back together. 


	15. Confrontation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic moves at a glacial pace, blah.

"I found some clothes for you, a coat and shoes, while you were sleeping. I know you probably don't really wear shoes but the ones I have are pretty big and the coat is long enough to, you know, hide your tail if you want it to. I mean, I'm not saying you have to hide your- your anything, but a cambion is going to attract a lot of attention, so I thought.... I laid everything on my bed, so you just look them over and see what you like. Anyway, it's five past ten so I'm going outside already, so uh. See you there, I guess."

 

Rather feeling like someone's mum, Harry paused to listen but could only hear faint noises of water sloshing around through the bathroom door. Zayn had been in there for half an hour, with no signs of getting out, and Harry was starting to lose his patience. He shrugged on his coat and made sure stomp noisily to the front door on his way out as best as he could with his crutch (just one since his leg felt better and it would be more convenient anyway).

 

A bright red convertible glistened on the street like straight out of the factory, sleek and shiny. "Straight out of wash and wax," Niall confirmed with a smile dazzling enough to put the car in shame when Harry pointed it out. It was a fine morning, warm for the season, and the young millionaire was dressed in casual wear, jeans and a polo shirt and slightly dirty last year's supras. Harry felt a little silly in his gaudy vintage scarf, pleated Dockers and Burberry peacoat until he spotted the massive golden Hublot on Niall's left wrist, sparkling in the sun like a beacon to other rich people, 'don't be fooled by the rags that I got, I still own a mansion and a yacht'.

 

"Looks like it's going to be a warm one," Niall continued talking, one hip propped against his car as he squinted up at the sky. "Almost wore just me vest, but can't be doing that since we're going to some fine establishments today. No occasion to be slumming around! Not that slums are anything to laugh about. Poverty is no joke!"

 

"No- S'pose it isn't," Harry stuttered after a surprised pause.

 

"I take these things very seriously, Harry. Horan Industries are doubling their efforts in charity this year. We have all kinds of projects in the works and some of them have already yielded promising results. I'm actually thinking of doing something closer to home next."

 

"Explains why you're so interested in Zayn, I guess." Harry almost slapped a hand on his mouth in horror, like a little boy. He had not meant to say that. He didn't even mean it - not really.

 

"What- that's-" It was almost fascinating, the sight of the millionaire's perpetually sunny face twitching and pulling until his features rearranged themselves into a mask of outrage as he fumbled for words. "Is that what you think, Styles? That he's a charity project for me!"

 

"No," Harry said quickly. "Absolutely not. I don't know what came over me." Middle-class resentment and misplaced sense of propriety over Zayn, probably. "You know how you- sometimes say things before your brain quite catches up with you and you don't even think like that, but it just slips out?"

 

Niall wasn't listening. "I'll have you know that I really like Zayn. He seems like a nice fellow, down on his luck, and I can give him a helping had so I will. There something wrong with that?"

 

His accent had gotten thicker, almost indecipherable, and it took Harry a few seconds to tell apart the individual words. "No, there isn't," he said feebly. "I'm an idiot. It was just that I was a little- surprised about your generosity, and somehow it came out like that. I'm really sorry. I didn't mean it."

 

Niall inspected him sternly. "Good! Glad we're clear about this. If there's a problem, I like to be made aware of it."

 

"There's no problem. I'm- really glad you're there to- for Zayn," Harry finished awkwardly, his sluggish brain jamming at the worst possible moment, as usual.

 

"Well, thank you, Styles. Harry."

 

The wrinkles on the millionaire's pale face smoothed over one by one and he settled back against his car, seemingly appeased, but the silence between them remained awkward. Harry felt too self-conscious about his stupid retort to start a new topic nor did Niall appear willing to take the lead, choosing instead to focus on tapping his foot against the pavement in intricate patterns.

 

"So, anyway, Harry, why are _you_ so interested in helping out Zayn? It's not you like have to let him live with you."

 

Niall didn't say it accusingly, but Harry shifted defensively anyway. "Well, I. He came to me and I guess I took it as a-" Sign? Fate? It sounded silly even in his head. "It's just the decent thing to do, I guess. Helping out someone down on their luck."

 

"There you go." The millionaire beamed smugly. "Still. It makes little sense to have him live with you. D'you even have a second bed?"

 

"My settee can be spread into one. Zayn didn't seem to mind."

 

"You made him sleep in your sitting-room? Well that's no hospitality! I insist he move into my house and why don't you come as well? More than plenty of room. Would make it easier on your foot, too."

 

"Uh-"

 

Thankfully Harry was saved from answering by Jesy stepping out on the kerb head to toe in black as per usual, it seemed, her lips a flaming red. She greeted Harry warmly and kissed his cheek. "Zayn not out yet? We need to hurry up, I'm meeting Leigh in half an hour. She's got an entire day off, for once!"

 

"He was a little late getting up. And not a morning person, I think it's fair to say. You're not coming shopping with us, then?"

 

"I trust you lads to manage that much on your own," Jesy laughed but glanced at her phone with an impatient frown. "Oh for heaven's sake. I'll go see what's keeping him."

 

Childishly, Harry willed for her to fail and be rebuked, but his wish was for naught as only what seemed like a moment later she walked back out with the cambion in tow, fully dressed, albeit with his jumper on backwards, hair wet and face puffed up, either from the lemon or soaking up in the tub. He pointedly ignored Harry but gave Niall a small smile when the man pulled him into a boisterous hug.

 

"Zayn, why don't you sit in the front with Niall, me and Harry can take the backseat," Jesy suggested with her no nonsense voice and shooed them all in the car with authoritative hand gestures.

 

"So here's what I'm thinking," Niall started as he steered the convertible down the street and out of the neighbourhood on A41, towards Piccadilly Circus. "We drop off Jes at Piccadilly, get some breakfast on the go and then have a little tour round the city. Just some basics. Tower Bridge, Big Ben, Buckingham Palace... I mean, for Christ's sake, it's your first time in London, we can't let Harrods be your first impression of this fine city. Even if it's just from the inside of a car, I reckon it's better than nothing for now."

 

"Good idea, Niall. We can do a proper tour on foot this weekend or one of those double-decker ones, if you like, Zayn?" Jesy asked, eyes on a pocket mirror she was holding up to check on her lipstick.

 

"Yes, is fine," Zayn agreed, absentmindedly. He was staring out into the increasing traffic around them, head snapping every which way every time something new caught his eye or a new sound demanded his attention. It was barely a ten minute drive from Harry and Niall's street in Camden Town to West End, but the difference between the relatively quiet residential street and crowded central London was stark as day and night. Harry had deliberately chosen to dwell far from the colourful, flamboyant parts of Camden with its markets and clubs, to remove the temptation of mid-week pub crawls and hangovers at work. It had all panned out a little too effectively even if it wasn't so much location as the work load that kept him homebound. But at least if he'd ended up living, say, in a nice little flat overlooking the canal he could at least engage in some people-watching. As it was, it often felt like he could barely claim to live in Camden at all.


	16. Tour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been meaning to mention, I have a tumblr specifically for fic visuals, so in case you wanna see stuff related to this fic, visit [the cambion tag](http://zarrywritingnotes.tumblr.com/tagged/the-cambion)
> 
> Also, I'm thinking of introducing Zayn's pov into the story at some point. I was hesitant about it because I was worried about writing from a non-human's pov, but as it is I don't think he's getting much of a voice in the narrative and won't for a while.

After dropping off Jesy in Leigh-Anne's possessive arms in front of the Royal Academy they (Harry) picked up breakfast to go (fruit smoothies, waffles and eggs boiled with soldiers) and drove leisurely down Fleet Street in the heavy traffic while Niall filled the time by sharing random little factoids about its past as the centre of the British press. His knowledge of St Paul's wasn't nearly as abundant and they passed the mass of it in silence, although Zayn seemed more preoccupied with the small face pressed into the window of a car on a lane next to theirs. When he lifted his hand for a greeting the girl's mouth dropped open and she started tugging someone next to her, but Niall was already steering the car left and back right, the great cream-white bulk of the Tower looming heavy to the east.

 

"Pretty impressive huh, Zayn? Still remember me first time seeing it, as a boy," Niall chatted.

 

Zayn, nose flat against the glass like the little girl's before, tutted disapprovingly. "All London buildings like this. Big. Who lives there?"

 

"No one, I guess," Harry answered, fixed on the fine lines of Zayn's profile to deduce if he was back in the cambion's good graces, and was happy to see no signs of disapproval at being addressed by him. "It's a museum. They used to keep prisoners in it, though."

 

Zayn slumped back in his seat with an audible huff and his face grew even darker as they rolled onto the Tower Bridge, the Thames a somber gently rippling stretch of grey-ish blue on either side. He remained mostly quiet for the rest of their tour, down the South Bank, past the Globe and London Eye (which elicited a slight grunt of interest), and then back across the Thames via Westminster Bridge (neither Harry or Niall bothered expressing surprise at the cambion's utter lack of interest in the Houses of Parliament or their purpose).

 

Buckingham Palace held some interest for Zayn until he learned the Queen was almost certainly not currently within it at which point Niall suggested they take a break in touring and head over to Knightsbridge. "Unless you want to hit up Oxford Street, of course. Loads of word class shops there," he explained to Zayn, who regarded him blankly in answer. "Harrods it is!"

 

Harry couldn't help but wonder if Harrods and Oxford Street were the only places in London Niall ever shopped in.

 

***

 

Zayn was glaringly out of element up on two feet. His shoulders were hunched deep under the fur-lined hood of Harry's coat, each step he took cautious and slightly unbalanced - a bambi on ice - and his head turned sharply at every raised voice or sound. In fact, he reminded Harry of an eagle or some other big bird of prey on solid ground, unaccustomed to using their feet for getting about. Or perhaps it was the shoes hindering his walking.

 

They'd left the car in a private garage owned by a "good friend" of Niall's and strolled down the few streets between it and the department store, Harry and Niall in a playful competition over who managed to suggest a sight to truly catch Zayn's attention.

 

"The National History Museum!" Harry suggested, inspired. "Can't go wrong with dinosaur skeletons. I'm pretty sure there's a separate exhibition on cambion history, as well."

 

"Oh, that's a good one. I'll raise you... the London Zoo. Live animals. Tigers, penguins, monkeys, komodo dragons," Niall listed with growing smugness as Zayn perked up and sidled closer. He was about to whoop his victory, hand ready in a fist by his side when he caught sight of something and stopped in his tracks. "Is that-"

 

Harry peered down the street and straightened in surprise. "Oh, it's Grimmy and Ed. Must be taking their lunch. Oh, I think they noticed us."

 

Niall's face grew pale and he licked his lips nervously, once, twice. "Listen, I-" He tried to laugh but it fizzled out as soon as it started. "Listen, I actually need to- forgot to take care of something. You, err, take this-", he handed Zayn one of the many credit cards lining his wallet, "Go crazy. No worries, get whatever you feel like getting, Zayn." He was walking backwards as he talked, one eye on the approaching pair. "I'll catch up with you guys later and we'll get lunch together." He swiveled around and all but sprinted in the opposite direction down the street, leaving them staring after him.

 

"Was that Niall Horan?" Ed asked as soon as he was close enough, squinting after Niall's rapidly retreating back with a sober, pensive expression on his pale, freckled face.

 

"Err, yeah. You know him?" It wasn't that surprising, really, Ed had all sorts of connections through his years of songwriting. Back when he'd still been writing for the top artists of the country he'd rubbed shoulders with the likes of Elton John and Taylor Swift. Even after his burn out and subsequent years of increasing anonymity and fading public profile he'd worked to maintain many of his old friendships in the business, in case he ever felt like giving his career another go.

 

"Why, it's only the guy who stole Ed's girl, Ellie," Grimmy explained in his perpetually droll voice and briefly rubbed the shoulder of his ginger friend to take any sting out of the words. They made quite a pair together: one lean and tall, dressed in skinny jeans and a blazer, crowned with foppish brown hair; the other short and stocky, clad in a rumpled flannel shirt and faded chinos.

 

"Are you friends with him?" Ed asked Harry mildly. He didn't appear terribly upset.

 

"He's just my neighbour. I don't really know him that well."

 

"Well you should work on that, I hear he's rich as fuck." Grimmy peered inquisitively at Zayn, who had retreated behind Harry. "So. What's going on? I would have expected you home, resting your foot."

 

Harry hesitated. "Yes, it's still hurting but much better, so I- I'm fine getting around a bit, barely need a crutch. Grimmy, Ed, this is Zayn. He's from out of town so I'm showing him around. Taking him shopping and stuff."

 

"Well hello, Zayn from out of town," drawled Grimmy a little obnoxiously. "This a new friendship then? I don't think Harry's mentioned you before."

 

"Yes, very new," Zayn said seriously and fell silent again.

 

"How did you two meet? Hate to say it, but Harry's not exactly known for his bustling social life."

 

"I saw him and liked him. He was very soft."

 

Harry cleared his throat nervously, shifting at the sharp sensation of claws gripping into his waist. He was an abominable liar and Grimmy had a penchant for digging all his secrets out of him. "Right! We need to get going now, really. I'm sorry. Things to do, places to be. Talk to you later, yeah?" He gathered Zayn under one arm and his crutch under another and manoeuvred them laboriously past Ed and Grimmy, who stared shamelessly, probably mentally composing the inevitable dirty jokes to bombard Harry's phone with.

 

"Well that didn't look suspicious at all," he said to Zayn once they turned a corner

 

"Suspicious?"

 

"Well, you know. They'll think we're together."

 

"We are together."

 

"Yes, but together like... a couple." He eyed Zayn carefully, curious to see how he'd react, but Zayn only nodded his understanding, non-plussed. "They're always like, you know, winding me up and stuff, Ed and Grimmy. Joking at my expense. It's all in good fun, no harm intended. They're my closest co-workers," Harry continued, thinking it better to prep Zayn in case they'd all end up hanging out together at some point.

 

"Are they couple?"

 

"Oh, no!" Harry chuckled at the mental image. "Ed's not into men, I don't think. And Grimmy... doesn't really do relationships." He wondered about Zayn's general understanding of love and relationships. There were obviously large gaps in his knowledge of the world - as evident from the fact that he hadn't known what a chicken was! - but he also appeared remarkably self-possessed and largely unfazed by his general circumstances or new environment. From what Harry'd understood, Zayn had spent several weeks hiding out in the leafy parks of the suburbs - had he been scared and lost then? Confined to tree tops by day, afraid to move in case someone saw and reported him. Increasingly aware of the acute lack of other cambions anywhere he went.

 

"Harry."

 

"Hm? Oh, right."

 

Zayn was pointing across the street, at the big building with its familiar terracotta facade and large dark-green awnings over the pavement.

 

"To be honest, I don't think I've been to Harrods more than a handful of times and I don't think I ever bought anything," Harry admitted as they weave through the traffic. "This is basically where rich people and tourists go, but since today you're both a rich person and a tourist, I guess we better do what Niall said and go all out. And it's a really pretty, old building - I think even you'll have to like it."

 

They came in through the Basil Street door, straight into the men's department, and walked aimlessly about on thick carpets and shiny floors, taking in their surroundings - the clean, muscular lines of shelves and display cabinets in richly coloured wood, brand logos in cat sized letters, endless arrays of folded shirts and ties, broad-shouldered mannequins in dark suits - until a sales assistant, a carefully groomed young man, approached them. "Good morning, gentlemen, may I be of assistance?"

 

Harry glanced at Zayn, who obviously had no intention of doing the talking judging by his mute stare. "That would be great, actually. We're looking to buy quite a few items for my friend here. Essentially, a wardrobe overhaul sort of thing. Casual wear, mostly. Jumpers, comfortable trousers, you know. A winter coat. Plus socks and shoes and underwear. Everything, really."

 

"Excellent," the man exclaimed brightly, an embodiment of willingness to serve, or perhaps just exhilarated at the thought of more than hitting his weekly sales targets. Harry had worked in retail part-time at uni and had quite liked it too, but he had prided himself on going off the script drilled into them in training and preferred to approach each person only when clearly missed, which soon made him the most popular assistant in the store. Of course, rather than a luxury department store, he'd worked in a dodgy below street level shop that mostly dealt in vintage T-shirts and accessories, his boss was a perpetually stoned former stripper, and the customers a mixture of young art students (or artsy posers, who could tell the difference these days?) and ageing hippies. He missed those days and those people; back then he'd actually enjoyed getting up for work in the morning.

 

"What sort of budget did you have in mind? Any favourite brands?" the perky assistant - Lucius, said the name tag - asked Zayn, his smile taking on a confidential, slightly flirty edge.

 

Zayn bowed his head a little to carefully comb aside strands of shaggy hair (that somehow didn't make him look homeless) with a single claw, the sight of which made the assistant's eyes bug out for the fraction of a second, and surveyed the shop floor majestically down the elegant bridge of his nose. "We go all out."


	17. The Men's Department

Like a tiny squad of ducks, they sailed through the department floor in a loose triangle formation from one display to another, Zayn being led under the respectfully hovering arm of the sales assistant while Harry trailed behind, resigned to his fate as a living clothes valet. Each item fascinated the sales assistant drew his attention on was of great fascination to Zayn and devoted a moment or two in the gentle grasp of his claws before a decision was made. He pawed at khaki trousers, patted down a cashmere jumper, stroked the sleeves of a bristled tweed jacket with the backs of his palms, all but tickled a button-down oxford shirt, squeezed a handful of silk neckties until the assistant made a distressed noise in his throat.

 

Most of the formal, structured pieces he discarded once his initial curiosity had been satiated and Harry's arms were instead laden with luxurious soft fabrics, chunky cable knit, a sleek Uniqlo down vest, tailored three hundred pound joggers, a fur-collared trucker jacket with an oversized overcoat to go with it (as the look was "trending heavily"), underwear of Egyptian cotton.

 

"I expect you'd like to try them on." There was a questioning lilt in the shop assistant's brisk words and he stood before Zayn hands wrung together as if expecting some outlandish request instead. They had descended on the lower ground floor of the store, where the men's department extended, and finished perusing the contemporary collections as well as the accessories section, which Zayn had half-emptied of silver jewelry and black leather belts. It would all cost a fortune or several fortunes, who knew, Harry had stopped keeping track somewhere around the divine blue Marc Jacobs leather backpack with its £450 price tag.

 

Zayn blinked slowly. "Here?"

 

"Yes, our fitting rooms are right over there, this way, if you please..." The assistant turned to go, expectant.

 

Harry nudged Zayn at the sole of one of his ugly Uggs, straining under the weight in his arms. "They're private little rooms. You should at least try on the trousers. We'll figure out the shoes when we're done here."

 

"Oh yes, the Men's Shoe Salon is right around the corner," the assistant perked up. "I'll make sure you get the best possible service."

 

"But I like these," Zayn argued.

 

The assistant's pink lips wobbled in horror and distaste before he could control himself and Harry chortled, amused at both their expressions. "Maybe we'll find something similar but in better condition here," he suggested mildly. "Let's just please sit down for now before my arms give out."

 

They followed the assistant to the fitting area, which was empty apart from two elderly gentlemen in a hushed argument over the fit of a jacket, and Harry sank gratefully onto the circular leather couch hogging most of the seating area.

 

Zayn opened the first door in the row and inspected the spacious room, its soft quartz lighting and mirror walls before turning to the assistant, abruptly. "Will you come too?"

 

"Oh uh, inside?" The young man flushed. "I won't, of course, if-"

 

"We'll manage," Harry saved him, nodding his thanks.

 

"Quite right. I'll go and notify Ricardo then, from Shoes..." With the hint of a bow, the assistant left, undoubtedly thirsting to blab about his unusual customer to his colleagues.

 

"Let's see. Making sense out of all this- Let's pile up all the trousers, here. And shirts..."

 

While Harry divided the mass of fabric into distinct stacks, Zayn threw off his loaned hooded coat and shrugged on the luxuriously textured roomy coat. It sat on his wide shoulders like he was born to wear it and elongated his rather short stature into an imposing grey column of wealth and mystery. The two old men forgot their argument and stared.

 

"You look like some Renaissance prince. Come here, whose coat is it?" Harry wiggled his fingers demandingly and pulled Zayn closer by the lapels once he was close enough. "Ermenegildo Zegna, figures it'd be Italian. The price seems about right too." Just short of 3000 pounds, for this one coat. Could Niall truly have meant they were to spend half the annual earnings of an average Brit at once? Harry wasn't overly fond of him, but letting him get robbed was going a little far. Zayn appeared blissfully ignorant of the value of money so it would be up to Harry to hold the reigns and veto anything too extravagant.

 

"We can have it?"

 

Harry gazed up in Zayn's dewy, golden eyes, forgetting but his own name for a fraction of a second. "Yes. Niall said...says we should kiss-" He chuckled to hide his embarrassment and made a great show of clearing his throat, hand pressed against his trachea like a frog had jumped out. "Don't know what happened there. I, uh, meant to say that Niall is worth about a hundred million pounds. It's not like we're going to bankrupt him. And, you look too outrageous not to buy it."

 

Zayn twirled around laughing and whooping, left and right, so that the coat floated around him in a bulky, majestic circle. "I'll be the king of the streets." He slipped it off his and threw it on Harry. "Hold it, I'll try the trousers now. But I think they'll fit."

 

Harry watched the cambion snatch a carefully folded stack of designer sweats and chinos and skitter into a fitting room, a crease forming between his brows as he stared at the shut door; something off about the way Zayn just- Since when was his English that correct? It wasn't many words, but even his demeanor like that of a completely different person for a few odd seconds, Harry hadn't imagined that, that Zayn had 'forgotten himself' in his excitement. Unsettled, Harry thought back to his first meeting with the cambion, how he the very first thing he'd asked was whether Zayn could speak English, a question that might or might not have been completely warranted. Had there been hesitation, a little pause before he answered?

 

Well, whether it had been pre-meditated on Zayn's part or not mattered much less than his motivations. It couldn't have been out of a desire to conceal his background since he'd shared enough facts for Jesy to uncover the identities of his adopted parents. Harry fiddled restlessly with the Prada zip cardigan in his lap, so soft it made him want to cry, and smiled politely at the woman and younger man, probably son and mother based on his sulky slouch and the suit she was holding, entering the fitting area. Traffic in the store had picked up noticeably - a steady background hum of people and clattering heels now almost drowning out recorded announcements - but their floor had few customers as of yet; should he confront Zayn, now while the lapse was fresh?

 

In that moment Zayn stepped out of his fitting room wearing nothing but a pair of black and white leather biker style trousers - Balmain, Harry thought - and exclaimed with great chagrin "I get stuck!" while his tail flicked freely in the air behind him in smooth jerking moves.

 

The recently arrived mother, a distinguished lady in county tweeds and pearls, let out a wet little gasp, somewhere between horror and delight, and again when Zayn shot her a brow-furrowed look, which Harry could sympathize with; the trousers coupled with his disheveled hair and gleaming black tail made Zayn look like the singer from Lucifer's favourite rock band in the underworld. Harry set aside the cardigan and ushered the cambion back in the fitting room, close behind. "Where did you get stuck?"

 

"Here!" Zayn tugged at the cotton of his boxers through the open front of the trousers.

 

"Ah..." Harry bent down on one knee to verify that the fabric was indeed stuck in the zipper, supremely conscious of the cambion's thin heaving stomach right before his eyes. "These are the sort of trousers you're not really supposed to wear underwear with, I think." Gingerly, he pinched some fabric between his fingers and pulled slowly to see where exactly how extensive the problem was.

 

"I say we rip it."

 

"Uh, no, we should definitely not rip-," Harry checked the prize tag hanging at Zayn's hip, "bloody hell, £650 trousers. You'd think they'd be sturdy enough to take it, actually, but better not risk it." He heaved a deep sigh, about to suggest they try and remove the trousers and the boxers with them, when his phone buzzed, startling them both. "Oh, it's Niall... He says he'll be at Harrods in 20 minutes."

 

Impatient, Zayn tried yanking the boxers free again, but all he accomplished was indignant creaking on part of the expensive leather, and Harry clasped his hands before actual damage occurred. "Stop, you'll just pop stitches like that."

 

The cambion had gotten very still, his head bowed low and eyes alert, watchful. Harry's fingers slackened his grip but Zayn's hands closed hard around them, keeping them there. Anticipation pulsed under his ribs, in his throat, in his palms. He was hyper-alert of their bodies, his awkward unbalanced position on the floor, Zayn's slightly spread out stance and the hard curves of his claws. His feelings were scrambling all over the place, on the walls and mirrors of the fitting room. Yes, he'd considered and been attracted to the notion in the bathroom, briefly, but the more inflexible, stubborn part of his brain couldn't reconcile with it, with the tail and horns and teeth - the alienness. There was a question in the cambion's eyes, not pressing but inquiring, which made Harry's tongue tangy and uncooperative.

 

Zayn shifted, pressed both their palms flat into his groin.

 

Harry sighed deeply, despite the hot flush under the collar of his shirt. "This is not a good idea, with our situation. You living under my roof, me barely knowing you or what is going to happen with your adopted parents or you. And if I've understood correctly, you've never had this sort of relations with anyone. I don't know if you should just jump into that, and I'm probably not the right person for it." It was a reasonable, believable lie, as well as the truth. It was a bad idea, for all the reasons he'd listed.

 

Zayn dropped their hands but the look on his face was that of deep confusion. "I smell you like me."

 

"I- You do?" Harry rose swiftly to his feet, feeling more in control of the situation with the way he towered over the bare-foot cambion. "Like pheromones or something? I never said I'm not attracted to you," he agreed reluctantly, "but this is about more than that. I feel like it's my job to help and care for you, not- you know."

 

Zayn tilted his head and watched him like a crow, face blank but eyes keen and sharp. Harry was reminded of the mysterious case of flawless English; what a perfect opportunity to bring it up and conveniently distract from the topic at hand.

 

Zayn, however, perhaps due to some other heightened sense characteristic to his species, spoke first. "Fine, Harry. You help me. Now help me in this." He wiggled his hips like a hula dancer.

 

A surprised laugh escaped Harry. "Right. I think... I think you should just leave them on. We'll pay for them and everything else, get the shoes, hopefully before Niall gets here, and we can figure out how to get you out of those when we get home."

 

Zayn grabbed him gently by the chin and tapped him on the cheek with a single claw, right about where he had a dimple. "Okay, Harry."

 

"Okay. Zayn. I'll- wait outside."

 

Harry's hopes of collecting his thoughts in the fitting area were immediately dashed as he found Lucius the shop assistant stood primly by the stacks of clothes.

 

"Where are we with the fitting?"

 

"Just about done, actually. Zayn should be out any moment."

 

"And you're happy with everything?"

 

"Looks like we're taking it all, yeah."

 

The assistant rubbed his lips together, starting with an overtly conversational voice that completely betrayed his lack of nonchalance, "You don't often see cambions in England, apart from ambassadors and the like."

 

"No, you really don't." Harry smiled pleasantly; deflecting questions came to him like second nature, a craft honed in the days of adolescence once he noticed the effect it had on people. Let the assistant assume what he wanted, that he was a billionaire flying in boys from all over the world to serve as his arm-candy of the week, or an eccentric philanthropist bestowing a random act of kindness on a complete stranger, which was Niall, essentially.

 

They played well-bred cat and mouse until Zayn emerged with the trousers, which he promptly cast in Lucius' general direction in favour of slipping into the coat borrowed from Harry. They - the assistant and Harry - carried all the items to the counter where it took Lucius ten minutes to ring them all up, all the while Zayn scrutinized every move, impervious to any and all attempts at small talk. Harry was content to lean against surfaces with what he considered an expression of worldly exhaustion, which in truth faltered when he saw the final receipt of £16,360 total.

 

The Shoe Salon visit went smoothly. Ricardo was an elderly grey fox with kind eyes and endless patience, only mildly deterred by the complications presented by the thick curves of claws on his client's toes, able to persuade Zayn into clipping them slightly shorter. Harry left them to it, the image of the impeccably dressed gentleman on his knees holding nail clippers for dogs burned in his mind, and made a quick tour through the cosmetics and beauty departments to assemble a gift basket full of skincare and spa products from bath bombs to body butter, which he paid for with his own money both because he felt irrationally bad for rejecting Zayn and because he was, quite literally, hoping to butter him up before questioning the fluctuating nature of his grammar skills. Niall rang him in the middle of it and they agreed to meet at the Shoe Salon; Harry could only pray the millionaire wouldn't keel over at the sight of their purchases.


	18. Meat Hall

The Harrods Meat Hall was a sumptuous cream-coloured gallery decorated with intricate art nouveau floral patterns and ornamental metalwork in the ceilings and display cabinets, but it wasn't the decor that'd attracted Zayn there. He'd caught a sniff of something ascending the escalator to the ground floor and whizzed past Niall and Harry in pursuit of it towards the food halls, happy to shove his share of the shopping bags in his companions' arms. He was currently leaning deep over one of the display cases, nose on the glass, nostrils wide, eyes wide as the oysters resting on crushed ice below.

 

An employee in a quaint little straw hat was quick to greet him, a spray bottle and microfibre cloth in hand, which she applied on the grease stains with admirable efficiency once the cambion had lifted his head. "Good day, sir, what would you like?"

 

Zayn fished out Niall's credit card and placed it carefully on the counter top. "Everything." He frowned when the woman laughed. "I have many money. In the card."

 

Harry, who arrived just in time to hear the exchange, interfered with an embarrassed "maybe some samples first?" while Niall, right behind him, overpowered him by hollering " _of course_ you'll have everything!". His face tightened into a pained grin immediately afterwards, as if stung by some internal throe, and rubbed Harry's shoulder for support, the angle slightly awkward due to the difference in their heights. "A little bit of everything," he corrected in a subdued, queasy voice.

 

And a little bit of everything it was that Zayn's sharp black claws selected with a decisive click on the glass to be taken out and loudly smacked, sucked and chewed between his sharp canines. Lobsters, oysters, prawns, roasted duck, caviar, quail eggs, turkey rolls, Scotch beef, Devon lamb - the only type of meat dismissed out of hand was all pork, a possible remnant of childhood in Pakistan, Harry speculated. He and Niall had been seated at the Sea Grill where they ordered pricey crab salads and Muscadet to stave off their growling stomachs, chatting intermittently as much as they could over the noise generated by the continuous stream of shoppers from other parts of the department store.

 

"He'll have to put most of that in the freezer." Harry shook his head at the three giant paper bags a total of three employees were rushing around to fill with the wrapped goods that had met the cambion's approval.

 

Niall shrugged. "I have room." He still sounded odd, like he was deeply troubled by something and, come to think of it, he hadn't been quite his usual self earlier at the Shoe Salon either, with the way he'd all but ruptured in joy at seeing the bill on the clothes - nothing short of a bizarre reaction - and even proceeded to present Zayn with a gift bag of his own, a collection of electronics to 'ease him into the thrum of city life'. Perhaps it had caught up with him in delay, the vast sum he'd just spent on a stranger for no reason.

 

"Niall, err, you know you don't really have to buy him all this... Zayn would probably have been just as happy with much less."

 

The millionaire looked at him with baby blue eyes embedded in tense creases of skin, like Harry had just confirmed his worst nightmare. "You think it's too much?"

 

"I don't know if- about that. Just, don't feel obligated to-"

 

"It's _nothing_. Money means nothing." Niall groaned and rubbed his face with both hands. "Except of course it does, to most people. That's the problem, Harry. I never know where to stop. Sometimes it's like there's two me's: Niall the loudmouth, throwing around his money, drowning his friends and family and anyone he comes across in gifts and gadgets; and the inner Niall, whose grandad told him stories of growing up in Mullingar in the 1950s, living life the simple way. Me great-grandad was the richest man in town ten times over but you'd have never guessed it from his car or house or the food he ate. And me grandad and grandma always made sure to honour those principles, too. And then there's me!"

 

"But, you do a lot of charity, at least," Harry offered, out of his depth and torn on whether they were on close enough terms for him to bring up so called first world problems.

 

"'m supposed to, yeah," Niall lamented. "Took a year off and everything, just to focus on charity projects, figured I'd pay my dues, right? But truth be told, I haven't gotten 'round to much. It's hard work, charity, and I'm starting to think fundraisers are not the best way to get started... It seemed great on paper, brainstorming ideas in my own house over beer and crisps instead of some stuffy conference room."

 

"All those parties at your house this past year were supposed to fundraisers? No offense or anything, but I wouldn't have guessed."

 

Niall nodded fervently, fingers crossed on the counter like a sinner's at confession. "I'm a shit philanthropist. Gah! I should've just stuck to writing checks for other people's charities. Wish I could just- pluck people off the streets, give them clothes and cash and a job, one by one until there was none left."

 

Harry, who found his feelings towards his neighbour positively mellowed out at this unexpected show of vulnerability, admittedly with a sliver of schadenfreude, racked his brain for consolatory words. "At least Zayn appreciates your generosity."

 

As one, they looked over to where Zayn had progressed to paying for his purchases, chin and lips smeared glossy and red from all the samples of raw meat the store had provided him with. A flushed female employee was offering him a paper napkin and then assisted him in dabbing his chin with it. When they were done she folded a clean napkin in two, scribbled on it with a pen and stuffed it in one of his coat pockets, leaning in close to whisper something undoubtedly cheeky.

 

Niall huffed out a laugh of disbelief. "Did he just score her number?"

 

It turned out Zayn had, to his own great confusion. The three of them walked leisurely out of the store while Niall provided him with a crash course on the complexities of modern dating with winning gusto, a little like a father happy to have found a connection with his teenage son. Listening to him, one would have thought him particularly hard up on female company, which Harry knew to be false from his favourite weekend morning guilty pleasure, tabloid binging.

 

"So. I ring her phone and we have sex?" Zayn asked with deeply furrowed brows.

 

"Yes, but no. _Ideally_ , yes. Women're a tricky lot, though. You have to play all the cards just right."

 

"Just be polite and considerate," Harry cut in, glumly. Not an hour ago he'd been on his knees being propositioned by Zayn and the cambion was already eyeing someone else? Bloody hell, he'd meant all he'd said and it was the right thing to do regardless of his motives, but here he was, squirming in petty pangs of jealousy over being discarded so easily. "Did you even like her?"

 

Zayn wiggled, trying to catch his eye over Niall between them. "Yes. Because she's nice and pretty."

 

"Well, good for her," Harry mumbled. Maybe he ought to get laid himself, although with the current condition of his foot and having to resume his position in the slavehouse on Monday, the chances of that happening any time soon were next to nil. Unless Niall had one of his "fundraisers" this weekend, actually invited his neighbours, and there was any truth to vulnerable men attracting partners. " _Niall_ , maybe you should host a party tomorrow, so Zayn could invite his girl over and you could give the fundraising another go? I mean, I think I have some ideas to actually make it work." He didn't, but he had all evening to scour the Internet for some.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should just put this fic on hiatus, my life is such a mess I have next to no time to sit down and write :/


	19. Zayn

Zayn watched Harry hobble to and fro as he cooked lunch, clumsy with his wrapped up foot but not significantly more so than what Zayn had already witnessed in the days prior to them officially meeting each other. It made little sense. Harry was not an exceptionally tall human as Zayn had learned on their shopping trip, on stoned streets where people of all sizes and colours walked. There had been few visitors at the manor, apart from the occasional men and women paraded around for a weekend whenever Ben and Madeline's marriage hit a rough patch, but he'd seen an array of humans on Paul's tiny portable television and even had faint recollections of those he'd known as a child, in the place they called Pakistan.

 

England was cold and wet, but beyond that Zayn couldn't make comparisons between his current and former homelands, or at least couldn't have until now that the vast, miraculous world of the Internet spread out before him. He'd spent many hours manoeuvering a digital pen on the phone and the tablet, learning the basics under Harry's slightly confusing tutelage and picking up the rest as he went, albeit somewhat distracted by all the naked women. There were an awful lot of them, all over the place, in places that seemed to hold no connection to sex. There were men, as well, but it was the women with their full bare breasts and heavy-lidded eyes that were in abundance, centre stage. Perhaps men were not valued as sexual partners by humans? From Harry's remarks concerning his red-headed friend Zayn had deducted that interest in just one sex wasn't unusual amidst humans - could it be that both males and females generally favoured women?

 

Either way, there were zero cambions. When Zayn specifically searched with words "cambion sex" more naked human women popped up, with plastic tails and horns and warnings he didn't quite understand. He should ask Jesy about it all, she'd proven herself adept at explaining things in a way that made sense. He'd been wary of her at first, of the aggression contorting her face even as she did stretches in the garden; one time he'd spent an hour watching her kick a punching bag in the same spot like it had challenged her in mortal combat, fury pouring out of every pore until she finally ran out of steam and slumped down on the grass for some more vigorous stretching.

 

Harry was a different story. Zayn had bailed out on their first encounter, but it wasn't so much that he'd been scared by Harry as much as his nerves had got the better of him. His contact with humans over the years had been mostly limited to Paul, and the thought of having to explain himself, to expose himself to a stranger and their complicated, unpredictable feelings and actions - it had overwhelmed him in that moment. He hadn't gone far, fully intended to come back the next day, but Harry had come to him first, left him gifts even. An invitation.

 

Harry was such a soft, malleable little human and Zayn might have felt ashamed for so unabashedly targeting him if his own survival hadn't been at stake. Besides, it had been barely been a week, the humans could still turn against him, he had to stay on his toes. This new human he was to meet today would determine a lot, he sensed, this lawyer. Until now he'd kept mostly mum about him life in the manor house, long days on the moors chasing after pheasants and hares, nights curled up in a dog bed near the fireplace in the winter and in the nook of a chimney on the roof in the summer, the massive old oak on a hill he used to climb and hung dozens of rope swings on over the years, the paint set a guest had left behind he'd used to decorate the faded wallpapers of rooms in the third floor and the eastern tower that no one but him ever stepped inside. It was self-preservation, plain and simple, an effort to keep himself from getting attached in case things turned sour.

 

Lying about his knowledge of English might have been bit of an overkill, however. He hadn't intended to but jumped at the opportunity when it presented itself and now he regretted it because of the sheer amount of energy spent on double-checking every sentence before speaking. Still, if he was made to talk to the police like Jesy had indicated with her talk about 'notifying the authorities', feigning innocence would be significantly simpler. Humans were ill-equipped at reading each other compared to cambions either way: they listened to your words and looked at your face and body for reactions but revealed more of their thoughts and feelings with signals they had limited understanding of, chemicals.

 

At the moment Zayn knew Harry was angry with him although he wouldn't have needed his superior senses to gather that, Harry's tense shoulders and squinty looks in his direction were unmistakable. The reason too was obvious: the day before, when he and Harry had returned to the apartment with all their purchases, Zayn had had the nerve (yes, he could admit in hindsight, it was somewhat selfish of him) to head straight for Harry's bedroom and Harry's bed and burrow under the covers, promptly falling into a deep slumber, instead of assisting Harry with finding space for the aforementioned purchases. Additionally, earlier that day, in the morning, Zayn had forgotten the rule about splashing soapy water all over the bathroom floor in his indignation, leaving Harry to clean it up while he slept away the evening.

 

Last but not least there was the issue of the shampoo bottles. While searching for new clothes this morning, Zayn had run into a basket full of them and based on earlier assurances promptly appropriated to use, which had greatly upset Harry despite the fact that he had apparently bought them specifically _for_ Zayn. He hadn't spoken a word since that incident, which was a shame because Zayn had all kinds of questions stacked up, about sex specifically, and Jesy had yet to answer his text messages.

 

As if on cue, Harry cleared his throat. "C'mon then, I think the scallops are done. I left some of them uncooked, if that's how you prefer them." He sounded sullen, still on the edge of anger, but Zayn obliged happily anyway, dropping the tablet to slide into a seat by the kitchen table. He loaded his plate with a generous portion of spaghetti and vegetables in addition to the scallops despite his misgivings and made a show of guzzling them down until Harry's shoulders finally slackened a little and a tentative smile twitched on his lips.

 

"I'm sorry. For going sleeping and- shampoos," Zayn murmured carefully.

 

Harry shrugged, eyes on his plate. "I know you need a lot of sleep and I guess we're even about yesterday too, you know, for sprinkling lemon juice on you."

 

"You did!" Zayn straightened in his chair, frowning deeply at the memory of this already forgotten, completely uncalled-for injustice Harry hadn't even apologized for until now. "That was horrible!"

 

"Well, you making a mess in my bathroom _and_ taking a nap while I put away and rewrapped the ridiculous amount of shit you insisted on buying was pretty damn horrible too." Harry had sprung up as well, hands on the table in fists, his face a mask of outrage that had simmered under the lid all morning, finally given voice. "My freezer got so full I had to throw away almost my entire stock of frozen veg!"

 

"You deserved it for ruining my sleep! Who eats frozen vegetables anyway?"

 

"Busy, single, urban professionals like me, that's who. You don't even eat vegetables, so excuse me if your judgment fails to impress me," Harry hissed.

 

"I'm eating your stupid soggy vegetables right now!" Zayn stuffed a handful of baby carrots and broccoli in his mouth for good measure, chewing so hard his jaw ached and droplets of spit flew all over the place.

 

"Don't forget your precious fifty pound scallops!" Harry speared one on his plate with a fork and flung it towards Zayn, whose reflexes saved him just in time, and so it hit the window instead, with a greasy thud that shook the glass.

 

It was a step too far for the cambion. He leapt up on the table and scampered over the tableware on all fours, fully set on smothering Harry with the remaining scallops, but slipped on the salad bowl and fell uncontrollably into Harry, propelling them both into a tumble off the backless chair and to the floor. Luckily neither of them landed on their heads but drew apart with pained groans anyway, Harry more so since his leg had taken a beating by the metal footrest of the bar stool.

 

After a few moments of heavy breathing, Zayn rolled up into a sitting position and placed a conciliatory hand on Harry's shin to lean over him in genuine concern. "It hurts?"

 

Eyes closed, Harry let his lungs slowly gorge themselves with air and then smiled at Zayn, wide and smug. "No, I'm good."

 

"What's funny?"

 

"Your English."

 

Zayn frowned. "Yes, very funny bad English."

 

"No." Harry sat up and rested his hand on a pulled up knee, green eyes twinkling. "Funny how fluent your English is when you don't think about it." A nervous shiver shook Zayn and he shook his head, legs already braced for a swift retreat on the linoleum, but Harry sensed his intentions and grasped his forearms in a firm hold. "Don't run. I'm not upset about it and you should already know that I don't want to harm you in any way."

 

"You tricked me," Zayn retorted, morose.

 

"Only in part, I was genuinely angry too. Anyway, you tricked me first. Zayn, all I want is to help you. I don't know Jesy or Niall that well, but they have no reason to hurt you either. Like, I know your experience with humans has been nothing short of unpleasant until now, but... I hope you can trust us at least a little bit. We're on your side."

 

Something about the gentleness of Harry's voice and eyes was making Zayn uncomfortable in a way he didn't recognize and he wriggled free, wanting nothing more than for the conversation to be over and done with. "Yeah. It was your fault anyway, I wasn't going to lie, but you just assumed I didn't know English." He bounced abruptly to his feet and hoisted Harry up as well by the armpits, impatient.

 

"Sorry about that, I'd never seen a cambion in Eng-"

 

"Yes, yes," Zayn interrupted, all but shoving Harry onto his chair. "I forgive you." Reluctantly, he resumed his own seat as well and busied himself with rounding up errant pieces of salad his stumbling had launched in every direction. "When is the lawyer coming?"

 

"Not for another hour or two," Harry informed him with ill-concealed delight. "Plenty of time to chat until then. You can start by telling me how the hell I'm supposed to wake you up if not by yanking your tail or with lemon juice?"


	20. The Lawyer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm afraid this is a rather dry, info-based albeit very important chapter. A disclaimer: I am not a lawyer, know little about UK law, and am in fact very much making most of this up.

Jade Thirlwall was a small woman with big eyes and honey-coloured hair in a wavy ponytail down her back. Niall had characterized the meeting as an informal get-together with the main purpose of introducing her to Zayn, but Ms Thirlwall was all business with her grim smiles and heavy briefcase.

 

"Nice to meet you, Zayn, I understand that's your preferred name?"

 

"Yes, how do you do," the cambion nodded politely and shook her hand. Harry had recommended absolute honesty with her and assured him that a lawyer's first and foremost duty was to protect the interests of their clients, but Zayn was yet undecided. He'd known a lawyer before, a bald man with the eyes of a shark, who'd come in once to inspect the manor house and recommended 'getting rid of' Zayn as a liability to the Winstons' business endeavours. Ben and Madeline had both balked at the thought but later, once the lawyer had gone, engaged in a long heated discussion over the fate of their adopted son, something they hadn't done in years, while Zayn spied on them in a hiding-hole behind a window shutter in the wall of a corridor, one of many in the ancient building.

 

"Should we get right to business? There's a lot we need to talk about. I'm actually quite surprised you haven't gone to the police with all this," Jade said very seriously. Niall, Jesy and Harry exchanged alarmed looks, but the lawyer continued quickly with a wry little smile, "Although from a professional point of view I am glad you didn't. While you haven't done anything wrong per se, Zayn, this is going to become a complex, landmark case and I appreciate being given the opportunity to prepare for the battle, so to speak, before taking this to the authorities."

 

"Battle?" Harry voiced their collective confusion, instinctively shimmying closer to Zayn, who had gone very still.

 

"As you know, cambion adoptions are illegal in the UK. And yet here we have someone who's not only been adopted and smuggled into England, but lived here for close to fifteen years. There's no precedent for this. In fact, once the papers get a whiff of this, they're going to be all over this. And then there's the issue of the Winstons, but that's something I would like to talk to Zayn about in private, at first, if you don't mind."

 

Niall blinked as if it had just dawned on him they were on his property and with mindless fingers smoothened out the quiff he'd likely gone to a hairdresser's for in the morning as he spoke, "Of course. I have several rooms upstairs- You should go in my office, here, I'll show the way."

 

Zayn shot a nervous look at Harry, who only nodded in encouragement and mouthed "be honest", and followed Niall and Ms Thirlwall up the floating staircase, banging his tail on the glass railing with every step in an effort to channel all his nervous energy into it and out of his trembling body.

 

Niall's office was at the far end of a corridor and rather minimalist despite its size and expansive windows. The desk behind which the lawyer sat with assured grace had a glass top, the white walls a neat line of framed pictures of Niall with various people, mostly against a backdrop of endless green grass, and nothing else. "Would love to teach you golf any time, if you're interested," the millionaire proposed with a measured smile when he noticed Zayn staring and patted him on the shoulder as he left the room.

 

"How are you, Zayn?" Ms Thirlwall enquired as she lifted thick folders out of the briefcase. "Niall tells me you have settled in Mr Styles' apartment."

 

"I feel safe there."

 

"That's fine, whatever makes you comfortable. Please, sit down. And call me Jade, we're going to be working closely together for a while, there's no time or room for formalities."

 

"Okay." Zayn curled into one of the white leather chairs in front of the desk, tense even as he lifted his knees in his customary perching position.

 

Jade gave her a kind smile and put on big, red-framed glasses to study a notebook with pages covered in minuscule handwriting. Zayn had never mastered the art of writing by hand despite technically how to spell - the woman that had briefly tutored him at the manor house had quickly grown impatient of his inability to control his still developing claws. "First of all, your English is somewhat limited, is that correct?"

 

"No."

 

"...No?"

 

"I lied about that."

 

"Why?" Jade fixed him with an astringent gaze over her glasses.

 

Zayn avoided it in favour of rubbing an itchy spot between his fingers. "It just seemed easier. I didn't know if I could trust Harry. He figured it out, though."

 

"Hm-mh. Alright. No lies with me, please. While you are undoubtedly the victim here, the process you're about to face can be quite confrontational and we need to be prepared for anything they might throw at us, which is impossible if you don't share everything there is to know with me."

 

"What process?"

 

Jade leaned back in her chair and rubbed her lips together before answering, slowly. "Zayn, this will probably come to you as a shock, but it's not written in stone that you're a British citizen at all. Similar cases with children of illegal human immigrants have resulted in withdrawals of all government support and even deportations. Of course, your case is different in that you are technically documented and your adopted parents are UK citizens, but even with such strong legal claims it's not 100% guaranteed you'll be allowed to remain in the country."

 

"But. I don't even remember Pakistan," Zayn stuttered after a few stunned seconds. Bile pushed up into his mouth and he had to cover his mouth to keep from gagging; this was worse than anything he'd expected.

 

"Don't panic, Zayn. The good news here is that because of the unique aspects of this case this is going to absolutely blow up in the press and public sympathy is yours for the taking. And trust me, that will have a bigger impact on a case like this than possibly anything else. Plus, I'm good at my job. I'm not a betting woman, but I would wager that within six months or so you'll be in the clear with this, with about... ninety percent certainty."

 

Jade leaned forward with her elbows on the table, the very picture of serenity, and Zayn could hear the slow, steady thuds of her heart in her chest, which assured him more than the polished confidence of her body language that she wasn't lying. The worst of the nausea reeling on the bottom of his stomach abated, he asked the question he hadn't until now much cared to know the answer to. "What about Ben and Madeline?"

 

"Yes, the Winstons." Jade chose a folder from the pile and flicked it open, lips pursed. For a fleeting second Zayn wondered if she too would consider sex with him impossible because of his "situation" or whatever irrelevant excuse it was that Harry had given him in the Harrods store. "The Winstons are de facto career criminals. That is to say, it appears that adopting you is far from the only incident of illegal activity in their history. In fact, they've been under police surveillance since 2011, for suspicious activities at key locations related to black-market trade of ancient artefacts. Egypt and Greece, mostly. India and Pakistan, as well."

 

"Right."

 

"You don't seem surprised."

 

Zayn met her sharp eyes with a blank stare. "Why would I be? They weren't nice people."

 

"But you don't know anything about it?"

 

"I don't think so. I never saw any ancient artefacts."

 

Jade glanced down at the file and then back at him. "Tell me about your daily life at the house you lived in with the Winstons, Harewood Hall."

 

Zayn heaved a great sigh.


	21. Party

"That is such _bullshit_. It's the bloody Tories, they don't give a fuck about the poor or the disadvantaged." Leigh-Anne's brown skin was flushed with agitation and alcohol, her face scrunched up in disgust. Jade had briefed Niall and Jesy about Zayn's situation earlier in her succinct style but Leigh-Anne, who'd arrived at the party half an hour ago, had been subjected to a nebulous, second-hand version from three people with poor understanding of legal proceedings. By the way she was talking, it was as if she thought the police were on their way to escort Zayn straight to the airport as they spoke. "They've not only jumped on the anti-immigration bandwagon but taken over the reins."

 

"Who're Tories?" Zayn asked, mostly to escape the woman's foul breath hitting his face as she leaned into him to hear whatever deep opinion she thought had over this. He'd been assured that alcohol was by far the greatest invention of human history, but a swig out of the metal can he'd been handed had left him just as unimpressed as the wine bottles both Harry and the Winstons hoarded in their respective cupboards.

 

"The wankers currently running this country, that's who. You'd think with people seeing how shitty these right wing conservative parties are all over the world people would stop voting them in."

 

"It's because of the media," Shahid Khan, a producer and regular at Niall's charity bashes, argued from the opposing couch. "The media is run by rich businessmen and gives voters these nice little easy-to-swallow messages that tell them who to vote for. It won't matter in the future, though. Foreign-born population aren't exactly keen on the Tories and there's significantly more of them now than there were at the last election."

 

Leigh-Anne shook her head, vehemently. "What use is that if they don't vote? And Labour is taking its existing black and Asian voters for granted, anyway. I mean, they don't exactly have ethnic minority candidates lined up to replace retiring MPs."

 

Bored to tears, Zayn scanned the people lounging about in arm chairs in groups of three and four but caught no sight of Harry. They'd come in together, but had been separated soon after when someone noticed Zayn's tail and a curious crowd swallowed him, smiling faces and eager hands towing him from one room to another for introductions until Jesy had taken pity on him and drew him aside to direct him to the lounge where those more partial to leisurely conversation than dancing and flirty chatter had instinctively gathered.

 

"Zayn, what do you think?"

 

"I think I'm going to the toilet." Zayn climbed over the back of his cube chair, ignored the inviting gestures battling for his attention, and left the room to wander through the house, downstairs, then upstairs, then back down again, and finally outside, into the garden. It wasn't the warmest evening, cold enough that Zayn wouldn't have slept on the roof at the manor house, but guests were undeterred by the chill, milling about on the grass and in and out of the trees even as they shivered in their short sleeves and skirts.

 

Still no sight of Harry. Zayn closed his eyes and sharpened his hearing, sifting through voices in the immediate vicinity with ease until he picked up the low murmurs of a familiar baritone in the middle of asking for someone's number. He frowned in dissatisfaction, undecided if he wanted to find Harry after all or why exactly he had wanted to in the first place. He'd been rejected before, there was no reason to assume he wouldn't be now. And yet. He couldn't give up on Harry until he'd given it his all.

 

A great plum tree grew at the edges of where the woods thinned out into a lawn, the ground beneath purple-red with over-ripe fruit no one had bothered harvesting. Their sweet, intoxicating aroma almost knocked Zayn over as he climbed up the thorny trunk like so many times before during his stay in the garden, quick and nimble even with his feet in the bothersome shoes Harry had insisted upon. This tree was one of his favourite perches, for spying on Niall and Jesy and their friends as well as for hunting. A great many species of birds were attracted to it, including a pair of small red-bellied ones (later identified as bullfinches by his tablet) that had tasted exceptionally delicious.

 

Zayn didn't linger in the plum tree, instead embarking on a familiar branch-to-branch route through the canopy, silent as a shadow until he reached the fat branch of a large evergreen tree not far from the round structure he'd slept most of his night in, right above a group of dozen including Harry scattered around the clearing before it. Conversation flowed easily and Harry _glowed_ , drawing interested glances from everyone even as his words seemed to hold little of substance. Unimpressed, Zayn crossed his legs and curled his tail tight around the branch, an unnecessary precaution as there was little chance of him losing his balance. He would wait.

 

While he sat and admired the muscles of Harry's arms flex under the ugly, near transparent shirt he'd chosen to wear for the night, he replayed and cross-examined the conversations he'd had with Harry and Jade, respectively. He'd been less prepared for the one with Harry, that conniving shit, and consequently had revealed details he'd meant to keep to himself for the time being, like the fact he'd spied on Ben and Madeline on numerous occasions. If Harry should mention that to Jade, to whom Zayn had feigned complete ignorance about his parents' dealings, it wouldn't take long for the sharp woman to unearth his most valuable piece of knowledge: where in the manor house the Winstons had hidden the contents formerly inside the safe of their downstairs office. Apparently the police had searched the building some weeks ago, but Zayn considered it unlikely they had found anything unless they had literally chopped apart the entire house.

 

Underneath the group appeared to be dispersing and to Zayn's satisfaction Harry departed in a different direction from the rest after exchanging some final cheek kisses with the girl whose number he'd presumably asked for. He followed, this time not making effort to hide the noises he was making, and soon enough Harry began peering upwards into the trees in an effort to locate the source.

 

"Zayn, that you?"

 

"How did you know it was me?" Zayn asked, sullen.

 

"I don't know, maybe I just hoped it would be." Harry beamed in his rough direction and in his upturned face and crooked smile there was a magnetic radiance, a sardonic sensualness that hadn't fully bloomed until tonight, under the gazes of strangers, but which Zayn had been irreversibly drawn to in addition to the kindness embedded in his demeanour and spirit, unconsciously at first. Would this desire truly be thwarted by the apparent apprehension Harry had towards the parts that separated them? Zayn refused to believe it, even as he couldn't say to have missed the mixture of fascination and disgust with which Harry's eyes flickered at his tail, most of all. "Were you bored at the party? Or, uncomfortable?"

 

"Bored."

 

"Oh? That's when you have a drink or two, does wonders to boredom."

 

Zayn grunted dismissively.

 

"You should give it a- a try-" Harry stumbled a little in his efforts to spot Zayn in the dark. Most of the bigger trees in the garden were lit from beneath with round spotlights, designed for enhancing the mood rather than visibility; it was no wonder people got lost in it and it was equally reasonable that Zayn could not have been expected to prank scare them. "Do you wanna come down? My neck is starting to hurt."

 

"Yes. Alright." Every move confident and precise, Zayn leapt from his spot higher up in the canopy to a branch hanging low over Harry and let the momentum carry him over it while his tail looped around it twice, just enough to send Zayn into a pendulum swing right past Harry's face.

 

"Fuck!" Harry jumped and laughed, a little more rambunctious than warranted.

 

Zayn's lips twitched in irritation: seducing a drunken Harry would be like hunting ducklings. "Are you drunk?"

 

"Just a little. Had a few cocktails."

 

"Fine. That will do."

 

"Do for what?"

 

Zayn grabbed his shoulder to leverage himself forward and swiped his tongue along Harry's cheek. Harry stepped back, touching the spot like he didn't know how to react, looking so cute Zayn immediately wanted to do it again. Instead, he cackled and let himself fall down in the cool grass into a crouch and up on his feet in one swift movement.

 

Harry shook his head. "Show-off."

 

Zayn smiled serenely and sidled closer, revelling in the jittery cadence of Harry's heartbeat. "I could show you many things."

 

"Zayn-"

 

"No one has to know. I just want you to be the first. No strings, as humans say. I'm not a child, just inexperienced, and I'm catching up fast." He spoke in soft, measured tones, playing with one of the belt loops on Harry's trousers while his eyes stayed downcast in between flickering looks, seductive, as on-line sources had assured him. It felt awkward and ridiculous, but Harry was falling for it hard, his gaze fixed on Zayn's mouth, his own lip caught under his teeth.

 

With abated breath, Zayn cradled his curly hair with both hands, careful not to press his claws into the skull, and rubbed their faces together in an explosion of affection and burgeoning arousal. He was afraid to kiss Harry in case he wouldn't know how to do it without biting and his fangs weren't suited to the kind of gentle nibbling recommended in the kissing tutorials he'd unearthed. Luckily Harry took the matter in his own hands and grabbed his chin, easing it open with a gentleness that had Zayn rolling his eyes under his closed lids: if Harry was under the impression that he was in need of being handled with silken gloves, he would have to be set straight immediatement.

 

Keeping their eyes locked, Zayn pressed his palm flat against the zipper of Harry's trousers. It seemed pitiful having to rely on such a modest part of the body for sexual pleasure, but Harry's breathing was heavy and his cock was growing large and stiff, all by its own, unlike Zayn's. He'd known it before, intellectually and from one voyeuristic occasion at the manor house, but actually seeing it in porn in crystal clear close-ups had all but blown his mind.

 

"You're so gorgeous," Harry murmured.

 

"Yes."

 

An amused huff escaped Harry and he shifted to hold Zayn by the hips, fingers flexing around the bones, thumbs pressed into his belly. "I do want to-"

 

"So do," Zayn sighed and watched silently as Harry's hand burrowed into the very same leather trousers he'd been stuck in the day before until Jesy had stepped in and fixed the problem with some soap and cotton buds, so effortless without two-inch claws in the way. It took him almost a minute of increasingly aggressive fondling to address the lack of response, that is to say, erection.

 

"Zayn? Are you- You're not-"

 

"No. I don't feel much there."

 

"Wh- what d'you mean?"

 

Heart pounding, Zayn pulled Harry's slack fingers out of his trousers and guided them behind his back, to rest on the base of his tail, inhaling sharply at the hot flash of pleasure in his gut even as Harry jolted in alarm at the contact and withdrew his hand like it burned. "This is how cambions have sex. At least how I have sex." His heart sank in disappointment at Harry's retreating form. "It's not much different from how humans have it."

 

"You... touch tails."

 

It didn't sound like a question, but Zayn answered anyway, on the defensive. "Yes, the base. They're like big cocks."

 

"But you have an actual-"

 

"For reproduction. Obviously. It only gets hard towards the end and touching it isn't special." He watched as Harry fiddled with himself, avoiding eye contact, rubbing his lips together, hands in his pockets. "You think it's disgusting."

 

Harry's eyes snapped to his face. "No, not disgusting. Never. I'm sorry, Zayn, it's just not what I expected. I had no idea that was how... But it's not disgusting, of course not."

 

"You're lying, I can tell, remember? Just go. I'll find someone who's interested," Zayn snapped. "But don't come back to me later with regrets. This is it."

 

Harry's face was one big, contorted mass of apology and the voice with which he gave one last "sorry" was choked, but he turned to leave either way and all but ran towards the house with hunched shoulders. Expressionless, Zayn dug out a ball-shaped lip balm and applied it methodically to his lips while he pondered his next move, proud of the restraint he'd showed until he remembered the stupid thing had been in the gift basket Harry had assembled for him. With a frustrated scream he threw it into the bushes, stripped off shoes and socks, and hauled himself up the closest tree in strong, angry jerks. He would hunt tonight and focus on finding sexual partners some other time, when he didn't feel like ripping apart his own skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time skip next time!!!


	22. Hard at Work

Harry's desk was almost buried amid papers and clutter. The big pile on the left was a software license agreement Liam had printed and insisted he read because "no one in the legal department had the time"; the one on the right a pretentious set of corporate buzzwords Liam had penned all by himself and expected Harry to transform into clever turns of phrase for the upcoming update of the company's official website. The latter he had breezed through earlier and highlighted the five useful sentences he would actually incorporate into the final text, the former he had employed as a mug holder, certain in the knowledge it was nothing but Liam's inane way of fucking with him.

 

On the computer screen he had open two windows: a mostly blank Excel spreadsheet and the front page of a tabloid he'd been periodically refreshing since he came in in the morning. Jade Thirlwall had been right, Zayn and the Winstons had indeed made headlines ever since the case had leaked to the papers and public interest showed no signs of waning judging by the amount of articles published daily in all the big publications, not only in Britain but also on the other side of the channel and even in America. They couldn't print Zayn's picture, of course, but detailed reports of the Winstons had been voraciously dissected in the press, right down to their choices of attire as well as the unorthodox nature of their sex lives.

 

Zayn himself had been cross-examined by the police on multiple accounts, but the cambion had little to say and it seemed to Harry he was no longer at the centre of the investigation, which made sense as surely they were most concerned with actually capturing the Winstons, whose tracks had ended somewhere in Italy. It was presumed they were still in Europe but even if they weren't, the international nature of their crimes had officials all over the world on the look-out for a couple matching their descriptions.

 

As for their daily lives, there had been little drama during the three months that had passed since Zayn had first made an appearance. Harry had gone back to work, his foot had healed in due course, Liam still hated his guts and burdened him with increasingly ludicrous demands that Harry had ceased taking seriously the instant he'd realised the ease with which he could get away with ignoring them. While his mental health had been much ameliorated as a result, he now also had a surplus of time to reflect on the misery of his job and life in general since graduation. Zayn along with Jesy and Niall had given him new purpose in life beyond work, but there was a growing realisation in him that it wasn't enough.

 

Harry wouldn't quit without a solid plan for the future, however, and as of yet he didn't have one. Niall would have undoubtedly offered him a position on the spot had he asked, but as close as the two of them grown in the past weeks, or perhaps because of it, Harry wasn't willing to work for him. Although, in truth, this had to an extent already happened with his involvement in Niall's concentrated efforts in charity. Zayn's situation and connection to Niall had generated a lot of interest in cambions amidst the millionaire's friends and while Zayn had been roped into a reluctant spokesperson for their now significantly more diligent get-togethers, Harry had been entrusted with most of the practicalities i.e. drawing up the required documentation for the emerging charity. None of it felt like work, however. Niall never bossed him around except jokingly and had full confidence in Harry's competence. The genuinely appreciative smiles from him and his friends were like crumbs of moldy bread to a starving man; it was pathetic how big of an impact such small, thoughtless displays of everyday courtesy had on his moods.

 

Around four, right after Harry had finished skimming an article on the Winstons' gigantic old manor house, Grimmy stood up in the cubicle to his left, stretched and shrugged on the fashionable blue suede jacket that barely met the workplace requirements Liam had printed and plastered all over the open office space. "Time to head off to the pub! You coming, Styles? You're on the cusp of becoming a regular, Sandra might actually remember your usual tonight, I can feel it."

 

"Thanks, but not today. I've got something planned."

 

"With the ever so mysterious Zayn character you refuse to bring anywhere near your friends?"

 

"None of your business."

 

Grimmy whistled. "Sizzling hot date night confirmed."

 

"Told you, we're just friends."

 

"Two friends, one semi-attractive, the other an embodiment of beauty that makes angels weep, living under the same roof of a tiny apartment with barely any personal space-"

 

Harry threw a pen at him. "It's temporary."

 

Grimmy leaned against the wall separating their cubicles, smug. "It's been three months."

 

"He's new to London, okay? I'm helping him settle in."

 

"Whatever you say, child. Whenever you're ready to share." Grimmy tousled Harry's hair before he could stop it and sauntered away, whistling.

 

Harry smiled to himself and began wrapping up his things at his desk. The plans he'd mentioned to his friend were nothing special, just a slightly more complicated recipe he wanted to cook for Zayn, who'd had a meeting with Jade earlier in the day. Apparently they'd made a decision that could have major consequences on their lives, Zayn and Harry's at least and possibly their friends', and Zayn had promised to tell him about it at dinner. Whatever it was, it had given Harry a funny fuzzy feeling in his stomach hearing him say that on the phone, just knowing that he had someone to cook for and discuss the day with in the evenings now.

 

Humming under his breath, Harry collected his belongings and followed after Grimmy's steps, taking note of all the poor bastards with ambitions hunched over their workspaces. Some of them wished him a good night, which he returned, but most remained as they were, working assiduously or pretending to; Harry had gradually fallen from grace in their eyes with his string of early exits. It didn't really matter to him, not anymore, and he continued on his way towards the lifts, juggling recipes in his head, until a voice called his name.

 

"Styles! Leaving already?"

 

Harry swiveled around on his heels, hands in his trouser pockets, his unbuttoned jacket fanning behind him, a picture of nonchalance he didn't feel. Liam had come out of his office in his uniform, an expensive but ill-fitting business suit and loafers with leather tassels, beer-coloured hair neatly parted and cheeks freshly shaved. No one had ever seen him take off his jacket and it was a persistent rumour amongst the staff that he wore a girdle under his shirt. "Yeah. All done for the night."

 

Liam worked the muscles of his jaw like a snake about to swallow him whole. "It's 4.30 pm."

 

"Yeah, so it would appear."

 

More jaw-grinding. "I noticed you already submitted the McKinnell leaflet for proof-reading."

 

Harry nodded slowly, as if in contemplation. "I did, yeah. It's like I've switched into higher gear. I feel so," he paused abruptly just like Liam did right before delivering a word he'd just looked up in the pocket dictionary he took with him everywhere, " _efficacious_ these days." It was almost frightening how good it felt to act like a total prick for once; he could barely hear his own words over the blood thudding in his ears as adrenaline made his heart race.

 

Liam stood frozen for several seconds, lips rounded as if about to say something but nothing came out, but when he finally spoke all he said was, "Good."

 

"Yeah. So, uh, see you tomorrow?" Harry turned to go but only managed a few steps before Liam stopped him by clearing his throat. A little nervous now, he faced his boss again. "Hm?"

 

"Styles, as you know, the last quarterly review of the year is fast approaching."

 

"Yeah? I mean, yeah. Of course."

 

"I'll be writing up a list of recommendations for upcoming promotions for senior management soon, as always at the end of the year. As you have been with us for almost two years now, you're eligible for step 7 within-grade increase in pay." Liam paused to gauge at Harry's carefully blank face for a moment before rattling on, hands on the lapels of his jacket, just like when he recited long stretches of carefully memorized corporate lingo at staff meetings. "Of course one's performance must be at an acceptable level of competence for me to actually recommend anyone to senior management. And as the head of a department with 28 full-time and 11 part-time employees it is difficult for me to assess everyone's individual contributions."

 

"Uh, I'm sorry, I'm not-"

 

"The easiest way for me to see if someone truly cares about the success of the company is when they go over and above what's required from them. I have, for example, been quite happy to notice you staying behind even after me on many occasions this past year, Styles. Not so much recently. It's actually very difficult for me to say whether you're working hard at all nowadays."

 

A hot flame of rage fanned through Harry's entire body but he stood still, face locked in a waxy smile, dizzy with all the insults he wanted to scream at this incompetent, despotic imbecile. He'd worked himself to the brink of a mental breakdown for 18 months, with not so much as a word of thanks, and here Liam was essentially saying he might as well been playing sudoku as long he'd just stayed in late and the result would have been exactly the same. "As I said, I've-"

 

"Switched gear, yes. Shame that sort of thing tends to go unnoticed, on paper, you know. It just doesn't look good. People like that tend to... get passed over."

 

Liam smacked his lips and smiled like he hadn't just told Harry he could kiss his raise goodbye if he didn't start putting in slavish hours again. Harry knew Grimmy had indeed been passed over in promotions a few times during his time at the company because of his abject refusal to stay in any later than five, but a pay lag he had not been prepared for. "I think I get what you're saying, sir," he said stiffly, voice hoarse to his chagrin.

 

"Great. Glad to have reached an understanding. Have a nice evening."

 

Liam strode back into his office, back straight as the stick up his arse, and Harry too power walked to the lifts, frustrated and furious, filled to the brim with an urgent _need_ to find a new job, any job, and shove his letter of resignation down Liam's throat. Pummeling his way through rush hour chaos, failing to board his preferred train due to overcrowding and half an hour squished in a train so congested he couldn't move his arms were, however, more than plenty to take the edge out of his fury and sap out his energy. Indeed, by the time he fitted he fitted his keys into his front door nothing but exhaustion and a grim sense of determination remained. He would quit, he most definitely would and as soon as possible, but not today and probably not tomorrow. Not until he had a plan.

 

Zayn wasn't home, which suited Harry fine since he didn't feel like talking and Zayn wouldn't have had anything comforting comments to spare anyway: he was of the staunch opinion Harry should stop whinging and simply coast on Niall until something better came along. Although he had, inspired by the long line of gangster movies he'd fallen in love with on the Internet, helpfully offered to pay Liam visit and give him an "attitude adjustment", which Harry had hastily declined.

 

Aside from minor disagreements, mostly over chores that Zayn failed to complete, their relationship had breezed along uneventfully over the weeks. While they had grown much closer and learned to coordinate around each other's schedules and preferences in their daily lives, there was also a lingering awkwardness palpable between them whenever certain topics arose in conversation or when Zayn, deliberately or not, ignored a social convention or crossed a boundary. Like the time he attempted to have a bath with Harry or when he suddenly decided to start sleeping next to Harry, who in fact now more often than not woke up to Zayn tangled around his legs or lower back in the mornings. Harry had been at a loss with this latter development at first and before he knew it it had been a week and it had been too late to say anything. He tried not to think about it too deeply.

 

During the next hour and a half he cooked dinner, a Jamie Oliver recipe from the cookbook everyone and their mums had been given as a Christmas present a few years back, and scrolled through job openings on the laptop he set up on a side table, bookmarking every single one that even remotely caught his interest. He would spend the weekend, hell, the next day at work, tailoring applications for them, ring up a few contacts. If only he had a better idea of what exactly he was looking for. He'd studied marketing, his current job mostly consisted of copywriting, and he was unexpectedly good with numbers and forms thanks to his dad, who was a financial adviser, but what he really wanted to do was talk to people. Not just sell them things, but engage with them on a deeper level, hear their stories of their lives or just how their day was going. Sales was probably his best option, but did sales assistants earn anywhere close to his current salary? Did he qualify for a managerial position? It was something to think about.


	23. Announcements

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I've been busy writing exchange fics. And I had to re-plan parts of the plot, since zaughty broke up lol.

The door slammed behind Zayn when he came home, visibly excited, standing before Harry in the kitchenette hands clasped together like he could barely contain himself. His tail was drawing restless patterns in the air behind his back and Harry surprised himself by thinking it was adorable.

 

"Well? What's the news?"

 

" _I had sex!_ "

 

"What? I thought, you, is-?" Harry stammered after a moment, forgetting how to form sentences in his shock. "I thought you were meeting Jade to talk about something important in relation to your-"

 

Zayn shooed his words away like a gnat. "Yes, yes, but I also had sex! _Twice!_ " His cheeks were flushed with colour and his eyes sparkled, literally sparkled, while his hair was ruffled into a disorder like he'd only just rolled out of bed with... who, exactly? Zayn had been spending much of his time during the past months at Shahid Khan's studio, "just chilling" as he so eloquently phrased it, and had mentioned various people who frequented the place but none with more than a passing reference apart from Shahid himself. Harry had met the man briefly and while it was possible cambion beauty standards differed dramatically from those of humans, he found it unlikely Zayn was hooking up with him.

 

"Wh- who was it with?"

 

"Shereen and Asami," Zayn interrupted him again, all but dancing to the salad bowl Harry had set on the table to pick out grapes out of it.

 

"Two girls?"

 

"It was the best fucking thing. Why does anyone do anything but have sex?" Zayn dipped a claw in the salad dressing, sucked on it with vigour and would have gone for another taste but Harry slapped his hand away.

 

"People have bills to pay, for one. But, who are they? Shahid's friends?" Images of predatory older women crowding Zayn in a shady corner of the studio flashed in Harry's head.

 

"Hmm, kind of, yeah. They recorded some demos with him. And we chilled a bit and talked about, like, everything and I said I really wanted to have sex with humans, and Shereen was like 'We're humans!' and then they started kissing."

 

Zayn's English had evolved over the weeks, from precise and controlled to careless and colloquial. The curious, song-like lilt of his mother tongue only presented itself under certain vowels and troublesome words, and Harry couldn't help but miss it, perhaps because the change signified a broader shift in their dynamic, with Zayn choosing to spend more and more of his time with his new friends and depending less on Harry with daily necessities.

 

At least he still comes home for dinner, Harry consoled himself and tuned back in to Zayn's enthused report, just in time for a detailed description the "good bits", as the cambion pitched them. He probably should have interrupted, out of respect for the two women, who didn't deserve to have their sex lives aired to a stranger, but a kind of morbid curiosity had plagued him ever since the party that had imprinted him with the distinct memory of slick, scaly skin pulsing hotly under his fingers. Zayn had said the tail was the primary erotic zone for cambions, that the genitals didn't even come to play in regular intercourse unless one was looking to make babies, and the few semi-credible sources Harry had found on the subject on-line had supported his words. It fascinated as much as it repulsed him.

 

"-licked each other, all over, and then I was kissing Shereen's breasts. I accidentally bit her nipple a few times, but she was alright with it. And then," Zayn paused to rub his lips together, "oh yeah, 'sami wanted to touch my tail while I was at it so I laid between Sher's legs while she did that. She was really good, just went at it, both hands like this," he curled his fingers around an imaginary tail, on top of each other, "and her fingers weren't even long enough to wrap around it and she was laughing because her tongue was sticking to it a little-"

 

"And she liked it?" Harry cringed at how skeptical he sounded even in his own ears.

 

"Yes. She liked it very much. Believe it or not, many people are into cambions. I've had many offers, but most humans are ugly so it took me a while to find good partners."

 

"Right. I'm sorry. You're right, of course."

 

Zayn glared at him like he was unhappy Harry had yielded with no resistance whatsoever. His tail curled around his forearm, daring Harry to look at it. "D'you want to hear the rest of it or not? If you don't, I'm going to ring Jesy."

 

"You might as well, because I actually _don't_ want to hear any more. It's none of my business. In fact, invite her over, if you want. And didn't you have proper news to share, too? What did you talk about with Jade?"

 

"Me having sex is proper news. I'm probably going to have some more tomorrow."

 

"Have all the sex you want, with whomever you want, as long as I don't have to hear about it. I'm going to-" Harry looked around, disoriented in his anger. "I need to take the vegetables out of the oven." He busied himself setting the food on the table, a frown on his face as he heard Zayn heeding to his suggestion and ringing Jesy, who from the sounds of it was also bringing Niall. It was difficult to place the source of his sudden bad mood; there was shock and worry over Zayn being solicited for sex by "many people" as well as sadness over not being entrusted with this information, but he also couldn't help but feel jilted in a more... intimate fashion. Harry had a way with people, he wasn't shy to admit that, and he was rarely surprised by people approaching him. Even with Zayn he had never questioned his own desirability, as cocky as that sounded, only the fact that _Zayn_ had desires and no qualms about acting on them.

 

"I'm a bit of a prick, aren't I," Harry mumbled to himself and the garlic bread, going in circles in the microwave, as it dawned to him exactly how offended the thought of Zayn seeking out new partners instead of pining over Harry had him.

 

"Yes, but at least you're a good cook," Zayn said from right behind his back, making Harry jump, and peered around him to sniff at the microwave. "What is that, it smells good."

 

"Garlic bread. Jesy and Niall both coming then?"

 

"Yeah, and they're bringing more food." Zayn skipped away on two feet like a restless parrot and curled onto a chair, his good cheers reinstated. His hair had grown long again despite being trimmed twice since his arrival, Harry noted out of the corner of his eye. If left unchecked, it would have probably reached Rapunzel levels by Christmas. "Oh, and the 'proper' news is that I'm going to be on a show on television."

 

"What? Why?"

 

Zayn thought about it with upturned eyes and pursed lips, either trying to recall Jade's exact wording or just plain trying to remember the reasoning - he had a tendency to be flippant about matters he had a poor understanding of. "To pressure officials? Jade says that my face will spike interest in my case and speed up the... process..." He faltered.

 

"Got it. There'll be lots of coverage about how the government is 'dragging their feet' sorting out the citizenship issue of a neglected little boy caught in the crossfire while everyone's hunting for his criminal parents. It'll work well with your pretty face, I imagine."

 

"Jade said I have to look sad and traumatized," Zayn huffed, like it was an insult to ask such things of him.

 

Harry chewed on his lower lip but chose against commenting. There were things he'd noticed about Zayn over the weeks that told him the cambion was far from unaffected by his terrible upbringing, but bringing it up never went over well. The suspicion and reluctance with which Zayn treated any and all attempts to talk about his feelings, the insistence to keep his hunting skills sharp despite food being readily available in great quantities, the startling callousness with which he sometimes spoke about others were all traits Leigh-Anne had identified as being typical of someone with a childhood of neglect; she worked in the physical therapy department of a trauma centre but had training in mental health issues as well as many of her patients struggled with PTSD.

 

"When is it happening, this appearance?" Harry asked just as the doorbell rang.

 

"On Friday," Zayn said before sprinting to the door. "Guess what, I had sex!" he announced as he flung it open. Niall cheered and then the three of them started talking all over each other, taking forever stripping out of their coats as they interrogated Zayn on every little detail, listed in such a disorderly fashion it sounded like there had been ten women rather than two. Harry listened in for a moment and then decided to spare himself the rest by taking a long bathroom break; when he got back Jesy and Niall had finished setting the table and were filling everyone but Zayn's glasses with wine.

 

"Hey, Harry, how was work?" Jesy greeted him with her usual warm smile.

 

"Yeah, how big of a tosser was Sir Stick-up-his-arse today?" Niall chipped in.

 

"More than usual," Harry sighed. "Threatened to block a raise."

 

"And you _still_ work for that wanker!" Niall said in the tone he always used just before launching into an speech to try and convince Harry come work for him.

 

"Well, I mean I don't exactly work _for_ him, he's just the head of the department. I could go over him, to the senior-"

 

"No point," Jesy rebuffed him. "It'll backfire when HR procedures kick in. I've seen it happen over and over. While I don't think you should necessarily work for Niall - sorry, love - you need to get off your arse and hurry up with that exit strategy. Anyone who accepts a situation they can't tolerate is destined to be a slave."

 

"I'm working on it," Harry retorted, defensively. Jesy had quit a corporate job of her own back in the day to join the army, which in her opinion gave her the right to lecture Harry on the topic. "Can we talk about something other than work right now, please? Like this television appearance on- what are you going to be on, Zayn?"

 

"Good Morning Britain," the cambion mumbled around a mouthful of greasy meat, lamb perhaps, out of one of the take out boxes Jesy and Niall had brought with them.

 

"Ooh, that's exciting," Jesy enthused. "We're gonna have to record it, not sure me and Niall can get out of bed early enough to catch it live."

 

"Early?" Zayn frowned in alarm.

 

"It is a breakfast show, on from six to nine or something. And you're doing a live interview, right?" Harry asked. "To emphasize the, uh, immediacy of your situation." He realised suddenly this was going to affect him as well since he would probably be the one dragging Zayn out of bed on Friday morning.

 

"Maybe I shouldn't do it, after all," Zayn muttered darkly, pushing away the take out like he'd suddenly lost his appetite.

 

"Don't be ridiculous, you can't miss Good Morning Britain," Jesy argued. "And by the way, since we're on the topic of cancelling appointments, is there a particular reason you've been failing to show up for the therapy sessions that were booked for you? 'Coz if you didn't get along with the therapist, Leigh could recommend one of her colleagues. They-"

 

"What therapy sessions?" Harry interrupted. Social workers had visited his apartment and interviewed him and Zayn a few times, but he'd heard nothing about therapy sessions.

 

"Standard practice. The government provides victims of crimes like this all necessary psychological and medical services they need, free of charge, and Jade mentioned she made sure therapy was available weeks ago. But I had a call earlier today from a social worker trying to reach you," Jesy turned to Zayn, "because you stopped showing up. They probably rang you too, Harry."

 

They all stared at Zayn, who crossed his arms on his chest and glared back at them with hostile eyes. "I don't need therapy." When they said nothing, each prompting each other to speak up with meaningful looks, the cambion stood up abruptly, his chair falling down on the floor. "I'm going to take a nap." He all but stormed out of the kitchen alcove and into the bedroom, his tail swinging violently behind him.

 

"Well, shit. I didn't realise it was such a tender topic," Jesy sighed.


	24. Good Morning Britain

Harry couldn't get Zayn out of bed. He was stood at the foot fully dressed in one of his near identical work suits, as grey and dull as the inside of his head and the late October sky outside. He'd anticipated this, having to literally drag Zayn out of bed on time, and the anxiety had manifested as fitful sleep and a strange nightmare featuring his mother and sister moving in with him and Zayn to "sort out their lives". Harry had told his family about Zayn a few weeks ago over the phone and expressly forbade them from visiting until the situation was "more settled". Gemma might not have listened to him and popped in regardless, but luckily she was currently working on a project in Cambodia and wouldn't come home until Christmas, which was when Harry intended to make official introductions anyway.

 

The clock had struck five ten minutes ago, the taxi sat on the pavement outside with the engine shut off while the driver puffed a cigarette and perused the paper Harry had provided him with, and the clothes picked out for the cambion by Jade the day before lay on the back of the settee in the living-room in a neat pile. Harry had got up at half four, a full hour and a half before he usually did during the week, to boil eggs and fry turkey bacon he'd gone to four different shops for. His limbs had felt like bags of sand and his head had lolled about on his shoulders like it was made of stone when he shuffled out of bed and yet he'd powered through like he had no choice, like it was his responsibility to shepherd Zayn through life.

 

Harry looked at the bed, at Zayn wrapped up in a tight lump of blankets, tense and still, in wait for whatever Harry would throw at him next. "This is ridiculous. I'm not your dad. You're almost the same age as me. I know your life has been difficult, but-"

 

"My life hasn't been difficult," the pile of blankets interrupted.

 

"Okay. It doesn't remove the fact that you're _currently_ going through a difficult legal process and it would be very helpful if you'd try and take charge of your life and actually act like you care whether you're going to become a British citizen or not. This is about your future. If you get citizenship, you can start thinking about pursuing education and what you want to do for a living."

 

"Maybe I'll just go back to the manor house."

 

"Well. I think the house is still being investigated by the police. They haven't even caught the Winstons yet. Right now you should really focus on this citizenship issue."

 

"I don't wanna talk to strangers."

 

"It's a 30-minute interview. And they're always very nice to the guests. You probably don't have to say much, just look as sad and grumpy as you like." The driver honked the horn of the taxi outside and a hot flame of frustration engulfed Harry. "I swear, if you don't get up within five seconds I'm going to carry you into the car. This is my house and if I want you out of it, I can bloody well make you get out of it."

 

Zayn sniffed but made no other movement. Saying goodbye to his exemplary reputation in the neighbourhood, Harry squared his shoulders and first tried yanking off the blanket cocoon, but to no avail. Undeterred, he felt around until he located Zayn's knees and shoulders, ignoring the cambion's muffled protests, and manoeuvred the cambion onto his arms, blanket and all, striding across the apartment with such ease he amazed himself. The driver clambered out of the car when he saw them coming and hurried to open the back door of his thankfully roomy model of a vehicle so Harry could stuff Zayn inside. He was breathing heavily when he slammed the door shut right after and fixed the driver with a stern stare. "Don't let him out. I'm going to get his clothes and then we're going."

 

Miraculously enough, Zayn did not escape while Harry fetched his Prada trousers and fox-themed Burberry jumper Jade thought would make Zayn appear both endearing and decidedly British, and they headed towards the ITV studios in the South Bank. Conversation was stilted as the driver couldn't stop stealing glances at Zayn, still encased in the blanket but with his head out and horns visible thanks to his recent hair cut, and so they drove mostly in silence through the quiet streets.

 

Harry took the time to reflect on his life and his choices, as he'd been wont to do of late, on the unquestioning, near oblivious, manner in which he'd accepted Zayn into his life and had been mostly happier for it, too. He liked coming home to someone, liked hoovering and shopping for groceries when he knew it wasn't just for him, that such daily necessities would have a positive impact on someone else's life as well. It made Harry feel important in a way that his job never did.

 

Not that Zayn was the easiest of house mates, by and far. One moment he was sociable and talkative, the next withdrawn and surly, and this week it had been mostly the latter, ever since the topic of therapy had come up. Leigh-Anne and Jesy had been on Harry's case about it near constantly, badgering him into bringing it up with Zayn, into convincing the cambion to giving it another go. And Harry had made an attempt, or half of an attempt, but the reaction had been so poor he'd ended up spending a night on the settee again, painfully aware of how much a pushover he was in his own home and how it would sound like if he complained about it to his friends at work.

 

Jade was waiting for them in front of the studios, a slim tower-like building overlooking the Thames, and admonished Zayn only with a prim look down her nose when she saw his state of undress. The cambion was unrepentant and said little as they went inside and a friendly woman introducing herself as Christine greeted them. Harry tried to mutter an apology on Zayn's behalf, but she waved it away with a "the things I've seen in this business, you could not even imagine" and took them to the canteen first for mugs of tea and coffee to go.

 

While Zayn got dressed and prepped for the cameras in hair and make up Jade excused herself to make a phone call and Harry let himself be taken on a brief peek inside the gallery, where the producers and directors sat in front of monitors in an organized but obviously charged atmosphere Christine explained was normal for a live show. Down in the actual studio space the two main presenters, a mildly attractive pair in their thirties with well-cut clothes and nice hair cuts, rattled on at a hectic speed about the size of womens' hand bags having doubled in size in recent years against a backdrop of fake windows showing the Thames bathing in sunlight it hadn't seen in months.

 

"Your friend is on in twenty minutes, after the seven o'clock news," Christine told him as they watched the hosts dash from behind the desk to a couch during an ad break, blowing out their cheeks to ease the muscles, presumably cramping due to the incessant smiles on their faces. There was something very American about the setting - the bright red carpet, the glass table and the yellow lighting of the room - which was why Harry usually opted for BBC's Breakfast instead. He wondered why Jade had chosen this particular show for Zayn's first appearance in the media.

 

"Come on, we better get you into the green room, I'm sure your friend misses you," Christine piped up again when a segment with a couple of Emmerdale actors began and followed her out without protest. He had originally only intended to drop Zayn off at the studios, but he was intrigued at how the interview would go and how Zayn would deal with the peppy presenters. It was barely a 10-minute drive from here to the office anyway, he'd make it fine.

 

Zayn looked ill and orange as they entered the green room, staring at a plate of gourmet sandwiches instead of the show on the monitor, with Jade next to him reminding him of what he could and could not talk about. Harry sat down on the other side and inspected the waxy layer of make-up they'd patted Zayn's face and neck with. "You look nice," he said once Jade was done talking and Zayn really did. The Prada trousers were a perfect fit and the ITV stylist had teased his hair into a soft, casual look that stood in a lovely contrast with his eerily symmetrical features and big eyes. Harry wondered if it was a cambion thing or if Zayn was simply an exceptionally attractive individual.

 

Zayn acknowledged his compliment with only a suspicious glance from the corner of his eye.

 

"What? You do. Everyone's going to fall in love with you. Look at you, you could be a film star."

 

A pleased smile tugged at the corner of Zayn's lips. "Yeah, they probably will. I'll make all the ugly humans feel even uglier."

 

"Please don't say anything about ugly humans," Jade said, looking up from her notes. "You need to come off as sympathetic, remember?"

 

"Yeah, yeah. It was just a joke. It's not my fault most humans are ugly."

 

"And how big of a percentage of us do you judge attractive then?" Harry asked, intending to distract Zayn but also genuinely curious. Zayn was the pickiest person he'd ever met when it came to looks, but his criteria for determining an individual's appeal seemed so arbitrary it was hard to be offended on anyone's behalf. The other day they'd been watching Blue Valentine on television and in Zayn's opinion the biggest tragedy of the story had been Michelle Williams's character falling in love with such a hideous man as Ryan Gosling.

 

Zayn took his time pondering, which led to the question going unanswered as Christine popped up again and announced it was time for Zayn to enter the studio. Harry and Jade remained in the green room, waiting in silence for the endless ads to end, and when the show came back on it showed the "pod" area where the more serious interviews were held. The female presenter beamed at the camera. "Welcome back. And welcome, Zayn, our very special guest this morning." The camera zoomed in on Zayn's guarded face. "While your name may not say much to the viewers, they have all read about your story. Let's have a bit of a recap on that."

 

An insert on the Winstons and the "case that has shocked Britain over these past months" played on the screen and when it showed the studio again both the presenters were shaking their heads in express sympathy. "Good morning, Zayn, how are you?" the male presenter asked.

 

"Good."

 

"You look good, too, but only three months ago you escaped from the mansion owned by Ben and Madeline Winston in a remote area in North Yorkshire where you'd been kept in secret since you were a little child, is that right?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Tell us about how it was like growing up there and how you managed to escape."

 

Harry chewed his lips as Zayn launched into a brief, impassioned report on what he remembered of his early childhood, about the Winstons' baby dying and how he'd been increasingly neglected as time went on until one day he'd decided to attempt running away. It was obvious to him how reluctant Zayn was to frame his upbringing as the horror fest the presenters were clearly expecting him to, but he didn't really have to as the pair did a fantastic job of colouring between the lines themselves, making Zayn's shortness came off as shyness or modesty. Jade was nodding in satisfaction.

 

Once the Winstons' depravity had been thoroughly lambasted the topic turned to cambions in general. "I hope you don't mind me saying this, Zayn, but I find cambions absolutely fascinating and I'm sure many Britons at home agree with me," the woman gushed. "As you've probably realised by now, we just don't have any home-grown cambions, and people have been terribly curious about you. I don't quite know how to ask you this, but how do you feel about, about humans? Do you feel like _us_?" Her laugh was painfully self-effacing.

 

Zayn bit his lip, his golden eyes flickering between the presenters. "I don't think there's a big difference, but then again I grew up with humans. It's mostly little things. I like raw meat. And I'm a good climber." He wiggled his claws like he was saying hello, a half-grin lighting up his face.

 

The presenters ooh'd and aah'd in delight at this display of charm, and the woman continued, her hand creeping towards Zayn's tail, sprawling on the sofa cushion next to him. "Yes, the physical differences, they're quite int- oh-" The tail retreated just before her fingers reached it and again when she leaned in further; the half-grin had taken on an impish edge. Realising she was being played, the woman straightened and laughed with awkwardly while the male presenter smoothly jumped in with a question. Harry released the breath he'd been holding.

 

"Let's talk about the Good Samaritan who helped you when you finally made it to London. An ordinary, white-collar man, who took you in his house where you're currently living, did I understand that right?"

 

Zayn looked surprised and Harry blinked in askance at Jade, who shrugged to indicate this wasn't planned.

 

"Yes, I live in his house."

 

"And how did that happen? Did you approach him?"

 

"Yes. I thought he looked nice."

 

"And he gave you clothes and food, out of the sheer goodness of his heart? Is he a wealthy man?"

 

Zayn hesitated. "He only has one bed."

 

Harry sank down in his seat as the presenters raised their eyebrows. "Where do you sleep?" the woman asked, bouncing back from her earlier embarrassment.

 

"In the bed."

 

"With him?"

 

"Yes," Zayn answered after a pause, evidently realising he'd revealed things he probably shouldn't have.

 

"Was there no other option?"

 

"I slept in the living-room at first. But the bed is more comfortable and it's big enough if I sleep close to Harry. Niall did offer a room in his house, but I like Harry's apartment more."

 

"Who's Niall?"

 

"Oh my," Jade muttered.

 

"Harry's neighbour. He has a big house with, like, fifty rooms, but they're too big for me. I slept in his garden for a while, but it's too cold now."

 

"You wouldn't by any chance be talking about Niall Horan, would you?" The presenters were almost panting with their thirst at the possibilities this new bit of information offered.

 

"Yes..."

 

"And you slept in _his_ garden?"

 

"He had a... what do you call those things, a hammock in there."

 

"And he didn't know you were there?"

 

"No. I showed myself to Harry first."

 

"And how did Mr Horan react when he found out about you?"

 

"He was very friendly. Chill."

 

This wasn't good enough for the presenters and they went on to interrogate him for more and more details until Zayn glumly told them he didn't really want to talk about Niall anymore, and they backed off to instead enquire him whether he was bitter about towards the Winstons and if he had any idea where they might be at the moment.

 

"I'm sorry, Harry, looks like you and Niall are going to be tabloid fodder for the next few weeks, if not months. Prepare for an army of reporters setting up camp on your street." Jade offered Harry a sympathetic squeeze on the shoulder.

 

"I expect they'll be more interested in Niall. Although I'm a bit worried about everyone thinking me and Zayn are in a relationship of some kind. Doesn't it come off as me... taking advantage of him or something?" And what would his friends say?

 

Jade thought about it. "I don't think that's the spin they'll go for. Not at first. Personally I would wager for an epic love story type of angle since you are young and attractive. We'll just have to wait and see how this unfolds tomorrow."

 

They turned to the monitor where the talk had finally turned to Zayn's citizenship difficulties, and Harry's eyes wandered absent-mindedly over the various texts and graphics running on the screen until they stopped on a clock in the bottom right corner. And did a double-take. "Oh, shit. I'm going to be late for work. Badly." He sprang up on his feet. "Tell Zayn I'll see him in the evening, I need to run." Without waiting for an answer he jogged to the lift and then opted for the stairs when he realised it was in the top floor. He could only pray he'd spot a cab immediately. And that Liam had somehow dropped dead overnight.


	25. I Quit!

Perrie beelined towards Harry the moment he stepped out into the entryway area to their office, having obviously been idling about at the water cooler, her usually vivacious face stiff and serious. "Harry, thank goodness, where've you been?" She grabbed his upper arm and squeezed it through the thick fabric of his coat, blue eyes wide open. "He's going through your desk."

 

"Liam? Just mine?" Bile rose up the column of Harry's throat but he bit it down. _You don't give a fuck anymore, remember?_

 

"Yeah. He realised you were late and went, like-," Perrie squared up her slender shoulders and compressed her chin into them," and just helped himself to it. I told him he was way out of line, but legally he's within his rights, 'm afraid. I think he's going through a breakdown of some kind, like he's muttering nonsense under his breath and everything, I don't even know."

 

"Over me being late?" Harry carded a hand through his hair, taking his time to smother the instinctive pang of anxiety in his chest. "Alright. Better get this out of the way then." He strode past an openly surprised Perrie into the open office space with confident posture, greeting his co-workers as they looked up with carefree waves, until he reached his desk where he halted as if in surprise at the sight of Liam in his chair, crouched over the desk, flicking through a stack of papers he recognised as the first draft of the end-of-the-year speech he was writing for Liam. It hadn't been his responsibility last year and he'd been surprised at being chosen for it considering his recent "attitude problem". It had been unexpectedly fun, though: writing words meant to be read aloud had proved engaging, even if Harry had little faith in Liam's delivery.

 

"Morning, sir, is something wrong? I'm afraid I'm a little late."

 

"Twenty-three minutes late, to be exact." Liam leaned back in Harry's flimsy office chair, floundering a little as it didn't offer his back the support his own overstuffed leather monstrosity did. The staff had complained about the old, cheap office furniture in the past, but Liam considered everything non-essential a luxury and refused to budget for it.

 

"For the first time in months," Harry countered with a steely voice.

 

Liam didn't reply for a moment, only fiddled with Harry's fluffy ostrich pen like he'd forgotten he was holding it. The buttons of his waistcoat were bulging from his heavy breathing - he'd gained weight recently - and the look in his eyes was a little wild. Frantic. "And what is the reason for you being so late?" he finally asked after the silence between them had stretched out to uncomfortable lengths along with the held breaths of everyone else in the office. Grimmy at least was offering emotional support by miming various ways to murder Liam in his cubicle.

 

"I had to take a friend to a live taping. For television. I got caught up in watching the interview." Gossip about him and Zayn would spread among his colleagues soon enough - right now Harry had no interest divulging details on it and he didn't think Liam would be swayed one way or the other if he knew.

 

Liam's thick eyebrows shot up like they were on curtain cords, like he didn't quite believe Harry, and Harry noticed the blood vessels on his eyes were swollen to an alarming degree. "That, Mr Styles, is not an acceptable reason to be late," he started in a half-patronizing, half-affronted tone that reminded Harry of an old-fashioned schoolmaster. "Your behaviour these past weeks has been completely unprofessional, putting in half-arsed, barely acceptable work, scurrying out the door the moment the clock hits four, and now this. Showing up to work half an hour late with an excuse so pitiful-" Liam drew in a contemptuous breath. "Is this how little you respect and appreciate your job? This company? Your co-workers? Me?"

 

"Yes, yes, no, and... yes."

 

"I'm sorry?" Liam stood up with menace written all over his face, but Harry had a handful of inches on him and utilized them to the fullest now, staring down at his boss without moving a muscle.

 

"Liam, there's something I need to say that I've been wanting to say for a long time." Harry took a deep breath. "You're a horrible boss and the past eighteen months have been the most miserable of my entire life. How do you fail as a boss? Let me count the ways. You dictate how I complete tasks to excessive detail. You question my competence in my area of expertise even when you have a limited understanding of what my job entails. You check in on me every ten minutes, make me feel suffocated and pressured from the moment I wake up till I go to bed. Your expectations are unreasonable and pedantic. You make me and everyone else agitated with your constant worrying. You, in short, have massive control issues that I'm tired of dealing with. And as things stand in this office, one either abides by your laws or is designated a spot at the bottom of the food chain with zero hopes of promotions or pay raises, neither of which I'm willing to put up with anymore. You can expect my letter of resignation on your desk by the end of the day."

 

Liam had been standing still as a statue as Harry spoke, only his stilted breathing and white lips a sign that the words had an effect of any kind on him, but the moment Harry ended his speech he opened his mouth to bark out four words, "My office at eleven", before lurching into motion and marching through the rows of cubicles all the way into his office at the front, stiff as a board. No one made so much as a peep until the door had pressed firmly shut, but the excited ripples of chatter that followed spread like wildfire, rising in intensity until Perrie had to gesture them to simmer down. She approached Harry with a worried expression.

 

"That was so brave, Harry. I've wanted to give him a piece of my mind so long, but the higher-ups really like him for some reason, I never had the guts."

 

"I know, Perrie, thanks. I've been honing that speech in my head for so long, never thought I'd actually say it out loud."

 

"Well you didn't lie. And you were so fucking deadpan about it, too," Grimmy pitched in, clearly impressed.

 

"That was epic!" Ed agreed and approving cheers and murmurs from their co-workers echoed in the room. "Actually even more epic because you were so calm."

 

"My pulse is racing," Harry admitted, a breathless laugh escaping him. He felt light-headed.

 

"Are you really going to resign?" Grimmy asked.

 

"Kind of have to now, don't I?"

 

Perrie shook her head. "No, you do not." She pushed Harry into the chair Liam had vacated and fetched herself a chair as well so they could talk without everyone in the office listening in. "You do not have to lose your job over this, that's totally unfair and ridiculous. I don't care how popular Liam is upstairs, we have a good case against him, every single person here can vouch for you."

 

"Perrie, I don't _want_ to work for him anymore. I was going to resign either way before Christmas. He has this weird... fixation on me, I think because he's projecting himself on me or something, and I'm tired of being bullied by him. I tried to be like Grimmy and Ed, just let it wash over me and not give a shit about anything, but I'm just not like that. I need a job I find fulfilling and that makes me happy. Haven't _you_ ever thought about quitting?"

 

"Every goddamn day," Perrie sighed. "But without me here things would be even worse, if you can believe it. Did you know, Liam last week wanted to take away all the chairs from the entire office because he'd read it increases activity in the work place. I managed to put an end to that, thank fuck."

 

"Wow. Just wow."

 

"Yeah. I'm honestly surprised he's not been, like, assaulted yet."

 

"Bet everyone's thought about it, though."

 

They sat in commiserating silence for a few seconds until Perrie's phone buzzed. "Gotta take this one. Listen, I'm coming in with you at eleven, he can't stop me. We'll hammer out the details, see if we can negotiate the Christmas bonus for you even if you quit before December 15th." She kissed Harry on the cheek and clacked away on her heels, perky as a terrier.

 

Harry pulled himself into his cubicle and finally shrugged off his coat, but not to work on anything. No point. For an employee of under two years the notice period was only one week, not enough time to finish anything substantial, and Liam wouldn't give him a glowing reference either way, unless Perrie worked her magic on him. Instead, Harry switched on the computer and searched for reactions to Zayn's interview online.

 

Many of the comments were, as he'd predicted, focused on Niall's involvement and positive in tone, except for those from people that downplayed his generosity since "it's all pocket money and good publicity to a millionaire". Equally many discussed Zayn and cambions in general, but Harry was horrified at the display of ignorance and downright hostility sprinkled amidst the sympathy and adoration, with some people wishing they'd just deport Zayn along with the rest of "his kind", which Harry was shocked to realise after some confusion referred to anyone of Asian descent, while others marvelled at how civilized and "normal" Zayn was, uncomfortably reminding Harry of his own presumptions before meeting Zayn.

 

It was all so sickening that he no longer bothered combing for comments about himself and decided he didn't really care what the public perception of him was. He tried playing Solitaire next, but his mind was reeling and he went back to the search engine, this time looking up articles about cambion diversity and prominence in various countries. He'd done a lot of research on cambions already, but most of it had been concerned with biology and habitat. Once he had enough many relevant tabs open, he went back to the comment sections and started an arduous process of copy-pasting and summarizing the fruits of his research in answer to the vile comments with the most upvotes, making sure to stay polite and to the point so no one could blame him for being some sort of leftist agitator. He didn't wait around for counter-arguments, mostly seeking to make himself feel better. Debating wasn't exactly his forte anyway.

 

Half an hour later Harry was satisfied with his work and took a bathroom break but was left fiddling his thumbs afterwards. With nothing else worthwhile to do and ninety minutes to kill, he was reduced to getting a head start on cleaning up his work space. He obtained an empty cardboard box from the copy room, which took ten minutes only because everyone he passed on the way wanted to congratulate him for standing up to Liam, safely out of sight, and filled it to the brim with his belongings: three mugs, a thermos, various flyers and pictures he'd taped to the wall, a plastic bonsai tree, a paperback meditation manual he'd never started, eight empty bottles of ice tea, the dry shampoo Perrie had given him as his Secret Santa last Christmas, two broken stress relief balls (why did they make them so fragile?), an army of Kinder Egg toys, a bag of lollies, and various pieces of colourful stationery he'd complimented the standard supplies with.

 

"Hey, Harry. This cambion fella on telly, isn't he your Zayn?" Ed leaned around the wall separating their cubicles to ask, owlishly, just as Harry had finished packing.

 

"Oh, yeah. He is. Surprise."

 

"The hell?" Grimmy trotted past him to peer at Ed's computer. "Oh shit. That's him, alright. Love the trousers. And the shirt. Wait, so. He's the one you took to the taping?"

 

"Yeah. Sorry, I couldn't tell you. His lawyer thought it was better keeping it hush hush."

 

"But. Then there's no sweet loving going on in your household, after all?" Grimmy asked, his priorities on point as usual.

 

"I don't know, he's saying here he sleeps in the same bed as Harry," Ed grinned. "Why is he living with you in the first place? Are you seriously shagging?"

 

"No. It's- I guess it's a little odd that he sleeps in my bed, but it just happened. And he likes my apartment. We first met when he broke in through the back door."

 

"Why the hell aren't you shagging? He's fit as fuck. He not into you?" Grimmy pressed.

 

"I don't want to take advantage of him. He's grown up in near isolation and depends on me in all kinds of ways, _and_ he's barely an adult anyway, I'm-"

 

"Okay, okay, when you put it like that." Grimmy raised his hands in surrender, taken aback at the vehemence of Harry's response. "You're on fire today with all this... loquacity. Don't think I've heard you say this much in all the time I've known you."

 

Harry allowed his head to drop on his desk and didn't even wince when his forehead made contact with the wood. "Yeah, my tongue feels drier than the Sahara. And I'm exhausted. What do you think happened if I just... went home for the day?"

 

Ed shrugged. "We'll say you had a headache. Can't blame you for not wanting to subject yourself to Liam's wrath. Drinks tonight, though?"

 

"Yeah, bring Zayn," Grimmy chipped in.

 

"I don't know, I'll probably go straight to bed. I'll let you know?"

 

Ed and Grimmy assisted him in smuggling him out of the building by taking turns transporting his coat and belongings to the lift while Harry followed a few moments later and said his goodbyes. As he strolled towards Charing Cross, breath steaming in the cold air, clutching his box, a smile grew on his face until he started attracting apprehensive looks. He met the eyes of an elderly lady, who smiled in return, and it almost brought tears to his eyes, to his alarm. Wiping his cheeks, he tied his scarf tighter around his face and kept his head down as he descended to the platform level of the station, blissfully devoid of people as it was already past ten. He would be home well before eleven and had to decide how to respond if and when Liam attempted to phone him, although he was leaning towards simply switching off his phone; a tendril of distress stirred in his intestines at the mere thought of hearing Liam's voice again. Apparently one battle fought and won did not a warrior make.

 

The train ride home practically flew by, but the short walk from Camden Town station to his street felt longer than usual and Harry even pondered ditching the cardboard box, which was slowing him down as he had to pause every ten steps to hoist it up on his chest. Turning the final corner, however, he came to an abrupt halt altogether at the sight of news vans and dozens of reporters in small groups, chatting and scrolling their smartphones in front of his and Niall's houses. One of them spotted Harry and soon they all had their eyes glued to him, microphones and voice recorders at the ready as he advanced down the street, playing up innocent confusion for as long as he could.

 

"Morning, sir, are you a resident here?" one of the few female reporters opened with when he was close enough.

 

"A comment for the Tribunal on Niall Horan? Have you seen the cambion around here?" piped up another.

 

Harry gave them both a polite smile like he hadn't understood the question and manoeuvred his way through with no apparent hurry until he had his front door straight to his left. The keys rattled in his pocket when he pulled them out and it was enough to tip off the reporters of his identity: in the half second it took for Harry to dash to his door they gathered into a tight mass of intrusion, fighting each other off around him, firing questions while he scrambled with the lock.

 

"Mr Styles, is there anything you'd like to say to the Daily Mail?"

 

"Is Zayn home? Can we talk to him?"

 

"Are you and Niall Horan friends?"

 

"What's it like to have sex with a cambion?"

 

It was this last question that had Harry snapping his neck towards the voice in shock, triggering a chain reaction of camera flashes going off, but he already had the door open and squeezed himself inside the apartment through the narrow slit the combined mass of people pushing forward afforded him. The cardboard box had to be sacrificed in the process and the last thing he saw before yanking the door shut was the frenzy that ensued as a dozen people dived for the box all at once. Slightly shell-shocked, Harry positioned an eye against the peephole to confirm that yes, the reporters were indeed investigating the contents of the box to the smallest detail like they were goddamn monkeys in that Indian tourist trap temple he'd seen a documentary about.

 

"Harry? Why are you home already?"

 

Zayn had appeared in the foyer, sleep-rumpled in suede slippers and the pyjamas Harry had got out of that morning. The neat hairdo was but a memory of itself and Harry thought he could detect the hint of a stubble, which was something totally new. He'd been under the presumption that cambions simply didn't grow beards.

 

"I quit my job."

 

"Oh. Good." Scratching the side of his face, Zayn yawned with such gusto his jaw cracked while Harry removed his coat and shoes. "So you'll be staying home from now on?"

 

"Still have a week to go. And I do need to find a new job as soon as possible. I should be fine till Christmas, though, at least."

 

Zayn nodded seriously and padded closer. "That's good. I hate making breakfast." At Harry's unappreciative glare he clicked his tongue and crossed his arms on his chest in disappointment. "It was a joke."

 

"You're never up by breakfast anyway." Struck by an unexpected surge of overwhelming affection for the cambion, Harry swept Zayn up into a crushing hug and clung to him almost desperately, swaying them from side to side. "Maybe I'll teach you to cook breakfast for me. As well as lunch and dinner."

 

"Cooking is boring," Zayn protested but sounded flustered, flailing uncertainly in Harry's grasp until his body finally went slack and his arms fastened around Harry's neck to mush their cheeks together, cold and warm. Harry didn't know how long they stood there just breathing and hugging each other, but it was Zayn who broke the peaceful silence with a wary "Are you going to cry?"

 

Laughing, Harry finally extricated himself, picked up his briefcase and stepped into the living room, Zayn on his heels. "Were the paparazzi here when you came home?"

 

"The camera people? No. They rang the doorbell for a while."

 

"Such a nuisance, attacked me like rabid dogs. How do you feel about the interview? I thought it went quite well. You could have left that-"

 

"Yes, yes, I shouldn't have told them I sleep with you, I know," Zayn interrupted, immediately defensive.

 

"I'm not that upset, don't jump down my throat." Harry shrugged off his jacket and pulled off his tie, glancing at the kitchen clock, which told him it was a quarter to eleven. Fuck Liam. He'd just go to bed and ignore any calls. "In fact. Are you going back to sleep? 'Coz I just might join you. I'm knackered."

 

"Really?" Zayn lit up like Harry had just suggested something far dirtier and hovered impatiently at the entrance to the bathroom while Harry washed up. In the bedroom he stretched himself into the blankets and stared shamelessly while Harry stripped out of most of his clothes, for once not caring enough to search for a shirt to sleep in. Before Zayn he'd slept in the nude without exception, but their living arrangements were ambiguous enough as they were without adding unnecessary nudity into the mix. At least he finally had use for all the pyjamas he'd accumulated over the years from distant relatives not familiar with his habits.

 

When Harry slipped under the covers Zayn shuffled closer, a little uncertainly, evidently anticipating Harry to execute his usual move and turn his back to Zayn, but Harry only smiled and lifted his arm, gesturing for him to burrow into Harry's side, which he did. The sheets were still warm and Harry found himself relaxing into the vegetative state that usually preceded sleep, but he valiantly resisted dozing off just yet, wanting to enjoy the rare pleasure of lying in bed in the middle of the day for as long as he could.

 

"I like your nipples," Zayn muttered sleepily against his chest.

 

"Shut up. Don't make this weird."

 

Zayn only dug his claws into Harry's bicep in response, but very, very gently.

 


	26. Cinema

Harry woke up alone to a dim room - his alarm told him it was a quarter past five in the evening - and took his time stretching his sleep-stiffened limbs before slipping on a silk robe and padding into the living room, tying the belt of the robe with a decisive knot, filled with ideas and possibilities for the rest of the evening, not to mention the weekend. He’d have to check his phone and email soon, of course, but for just ten minutes he wanted to wallow in this little pocket of freedom-induced happiness. Have some hot chocolate. Pancakes even.

 

Humming under his breath, Harry flicked on the lights of the living-room and… froze. The settee was occupied by two familiar figures, slumped against each other in deep sleep, one dressed in a beige trenchcoat and polished shoes, the other still in Harry’s pyjamas. Liam had his head back against the back of the settee, mouth agape, snoring in faint whistles, slow and rhythmic, while Zayn rested his cheek on Liam’s shoulder, gnawing a little on the undoubtedly expensive fabric of the trenchcoat in his slumber.

 

What the fuck? Harry's home was his castle and off limits to people he disliked, which seemed to mean bugger all to his trusted companion, who had lifted the portcullis while the king of the castle was defenseless and dead to the world.

 

Perturbed to the extent that his hands shook a little, Harry went through the steps of gathering up ingredients and utensils for his pancakes - eggs, flour, the sieve, a whisk, 2 lemons, butter... had it gone bad? - but with most of his attention in the sleeping figures, flinching every time metal clanked on metal or a cupboard fell shut too loudly, determined to act normal and like he was in control but failing at it. He was successful in rounding up all he needed, but found himself too distracted to actually get started, instead pondering whether getting dressed would make him feel more or less confident in Liam's company.

 

Finally he realised he had yet to brush his teeth and escaped into the bathroom. The sight of his own anxious face in the mirror proved even more agitating, however, and he flitted back into the kitchen where he fiddled uselessly with bags of flour and sugar with his one available hand while the tooth paste in his mouth turned to drool. He washed it down with apple juice, placed the tooth brush on a paper towel, and sat on the step ladder in the corner where he huddled and glowered at the settee rather like Zayn in one of his moods.

 

Why had Liam come all the way to his home? Why the fuck had Zayn let him inside? Had the reporters interrogated Liam and how successfully? It was his impression that Liam paid little attention to anything outside his job, so it could well be Zayn and the presence of the media had been a complete surprise. Not that it made one lick of difference to Liam’s mission, whatever it was.

 

Harry turned sideways on the stool to peek through the blinders on the kitchen window: he could spot only two news vans in the gloomy lighting of the street and the number of reporters too had dwindled to five, as far as he could tell. They were sat in their cars, chatting and eating take-away with animated faces, like they wouldn't rather be somewhere else on a chilly Friday night in November. There might have been a kind of charm to it, the camaraderie of a late night stake-out, had it been to snap shots of a drug dealer or some other criminal instead of innocent people. Harry had considered journalism as a career choice at uni but had been advised against it because of the poor pay and limited prospects of the profession. Maybe it was something worth looking into now, though? He'd written for a school paper for about six months and had liked it well enough, interviews in particular.

 

His spirits improved by the reminder of the endless possibilities his future held, Harry left the kitchen stool, fetched the remote control and flicked on the television while he got finally started on the pancake batter. _Let's just get this over with._ It wasn't like he was alone.

 

Liam started stirring immediately at the noises and lifted his head to stare at the screen in evident disorientation until he finally thought to turn around and found Harry whisking the batter, neither avoiding or meeting his eyes. “Harry," he rasped. "I’m- You must be wondering what I’m doing here.” He sounded unlike Harry had ever heard him before, hesitant and nervous.

 

“Yeah, I was a bit surprised," Harry drawled. "Guess you’ve met Zayn.”

 

“Oh, yes, he’s…” Awkwardly, Liam's glanced at the dark head snuggled into his side and repositioned it on the settee, away from him, very carefully. “I’ve seen the headlines, of course, but- Never thought I’d meet him in your apartment. Quite a character. He said he might have to kill me if I hurt you.”

 

Harry snorted in faint amusement, but made no further comment; he wanted for the ball to stay in Liam's court for as long as possible.

 

Liam cleared his throat and unfolded himself to his feet to approach Harry, who busied himself with studiously lubricating the pan while his pulse quickened in preparation for battle. “Harry. I’m here to apologise.”

 

“What?”

 

“I realise that this is much too late and I can’t take back all the distress I’ve caused you, but here it is anyway. I’m sorry, Harry, for everything. What you said today, it was all correct. Every word. It’s not like I didn’t know that I was being… too strict, but no one ever- I just couldn't help myself.” Liam gestured hopelessly. “Truth be told, I hate my job. I’ve never been good at it, I only got the promotion because I was in the right place at the right time. The things you said about how I make you all feel, it’s how my superiors make me feel. And I’m doing it to you all in turn. I’m like the father abusing his wife because it’s all he knows.”

 

Harry stared, astonished, half-convinced he was imagining things. His mouth had fallen slightly open, his instinctive reaction to appease and reassure even in his state of shock, to accept the words his brain registered as an apology, but he held his tongue, reminding himself of the righteousness of the speech he'd delivered and the truly appalling working conditions he’d endured for far too long. “Sounds about right.”

 

Liam nodded fervently, wringing his hands in front of him, knuckles white. “And you in particular, I’ve been the hardest on you. Did you know, I used to have hair a little like yours, when I started at the company. You reminded me of myself so much, impressed me with your enthusiasm and work ethic, and I went ahead and corrupted it all.”

 

There was a glossy sheen to Liam's eyes now and Harry averted his eyes to let the rest of the feverish apology wash over him as one big tide of noise, oddly embarrassed by it, perhaps because of the suddenness of it or because he wasn’t used to feeling anything beyond resentment towards Liam and had difficulty coping. It even occurred to him it could be a trap, an effort to lure him back for some nefarious reason, to frame him for some corporate fuck-up so Liam could fire him and come out on top in the eyes of the higher-ups. But Liam wasn't that good of an actor and the way his hands were shaking couldn't possibly be faked, so.

 

“Harry? What do you say?”

 

“What do I say?”

 

“To staying at least till the end of the year, if I promise to get off your back and to- work on my issues.”

 

Harry gnawed on his lower lip, but the answer was apparent and immediate in his gut: he had promised to live true to himself. “You should work on your issues regardless. I'm not coming back, though. I appreciate your apology, but I’m done. Even if you did suddenly change for the better, it’s just too late. Too much has happened,” he intoned evenly, as if he wasn't feeling excruciatingly awkward. This was a million times harder than listing Liam’s faults to his fuming face in front of all their co-workers and almost as hard as rejecting Zayn that night in Niall's garden. He had many regrets about the way the encounter had gone although he was undecided on what he could have done differently.

 

The determined line of Liam’s jaw relaxed gradually and he nodded in understanding, loosening the knot in Harry's stomach as well. "I understand." He didn't say anything after that, only stood there in the middle of Harry's living room in somber silence while Harry did a test pancake, very poorly because he couldn't stop glimpsing at his soon-to-be former boss, wondering why he was still there and how to ask him to leave. He forgave people easily and already his feelings towards Liam had, if not gone a full 180, been diluted from abject animosity to weary tolerance, unbelievably enough, considering the time he'd spent hating the man.

 

Rustling on the settee drew their attention - Zayn was pulling himself up from where he'd crumbled on the cushions, hanging his arms over the back of the settee, eyes bright and alert. "Guess we're not killing him, huh?" he quipped to Harry.

 

Liam chuckled awkwardly and Harry rolled his eyes, hiding behind his hair as he spoke. "No. I think Liam was just... leaving?"

 

"Oh. Yes, of course, I'm wasting your time on a Friday night, how inconsiderate of me. It was nice meeting you, Zayn, even in these unfortunate circumstances. Harry, I'll- see you on Monday. Have that meeting with Perrie." Liam took a few sharp steps towards the front door before stopping, a grimace of his face. "Those reporters, they kind of attacked me earlier, I told them I was your boss, I was so caught off guard-"

 

"It's fine," Harry interrupted, impatient for Liam to be gone. "They probably have, like, my birth records or something by now." At the very least they had probably come to the right conclusions over the contents of Harry's box, and Liam's appearance had only given them more juicy material for whatever approach to Harry leaving his job they would take with their subsequent articles. A tiny spike of sadistic pleasure swirled in his gut at the thought of the tabloids painting Liam into the monster who'd fired the Good Samaritan.

 

Liam walked out the door, with a weak smile and a wave, and Zayn scooted over to the kitchen window to join Harry in watching him dash to his car while the reporters scrambled out of their vans. "I thought he would be bigger," the cambion commented idly, sniffing at the bowl of pancake batter, which Harry was quick to snatch to his chest.

 

"Sorry he didn't live up to your expectations. Why did you let him in without asking me?"

 

Zayn shrugged. "He yelled through the door and it was annoying. I threatened him a little bit, but it wasn't as much fun as I thought it would be. He almost cried."

 

"And then you took a nap together?"

 

"He just fell asleep in the middle of Jeremy Kyle. And you were still sleeping, so I thought I might as well, too. What're you making? Is there meat in it?" Zayn inspected the test pancake still on the pan Harry had lifted off the hob.

 

"The batter doesn't, no, but you can stuff them with whatever you like. And, actually," Harry said slowly, switching gears, "you are going to make them."

 

It took some persuasion, but in the end, after grudgingly agreeing to skip a bath in favour of a shower, for once, Zayn did in fact huddle over the cooker on the kitchen stool, a pan slice in hand, and made a massive mess spooning batter into the pan and flipping over unsettled pancakes. Harry stayed out of it, frying ground beef and mushrooms for Zayn instead, and as the cambion became more confident with his task they engaged in idle conversation. Having something to do with his hands seemed to distract Zayn from his guarded nature, and in a casual, almost absent-minded tone he recounted anecdotes of the few people he'd known during his childhood years at the manor house; of the elderly, deaf cook with a bad temper, the two Polish cleaners Zayn liked playing pranks on and who consequently thought the house was haunted, the gamekeeper named Paul, who'd lived in a cottage on the property for six years, becoming Zayn's only friend until the Winstons had got a whiff of it and fired him.

 

"Why didn't he ever go to the police about you?" Harry asked, casually.

 

"He had stuff in his past. Ben and Madeline knew about it. They knew about everyone's past." Zayn shrugged like it didn't matter, but there was tension in the line of his mouth, and Harry was quick to change the subject.

 

"The house must be really beautiful, does it have a name?"

 

"Harewood Hall. Lots of hares around."

 

"What does it look like?"

 

Zayn thought about it, long and hard, burning a pancake while at it, but in the end only said, "Red."

 

"Descriptive." Harry decided to simply google it later; most old houses had their own web pages. "D'you miss it?"

 

"It's my home."

 

"We can probably go visit once the police are done with it... I'd love to see it."

 

Gingerly, Zayn placed the last pancake on top of the stack and stared at the plate with a gloomy frown. "But I can't live there anymore?"

 

"It's your par- the Winstons' house. It's up to them, I guess, even if they go to prison. And presumably they will. D'you think they might let you live in there?" The exact nature of the relationship between Zayn and his adopted parents wasn't altogether clear to Harry, but it fascinated him. Everything about Zayn fascinated him. He could have listened to Zayn talking forever, on almost any subject (the exception being the details of his and his new lovers' sexual escapades) and it bothered him that three months had passed and despite them becoming so thoroughly comfortable in each other's company, he still couldn't say to know much about Zayn, although in truth the fault was largely his own. He simply didn't have the audacity to pry into topics he wasn't sure Zayn would welcome. Even now, with Zayn seemingly unguarded and open, Harry balked at asking the questions he really wanted but was afraid of getting answers to. Like, would Zayn miss him at all if he went back to living in the middle of nowhere? Did Harry factor in at all in Zayn's future plans?

 

"Yes, they will," Zayn said, suddenly unconcerned. "If it's their house, it's my house. Can we eat now?"

 

They dined in front of the television, watching Strictly Come Dancing, which interested Harry mainly because of her current celebrity crush, Caroline Flack, while Zayn took turns ridiculing dancing, the "stupidest of human inventions", and Harry's choice of pancake fillings, i.e. lemon and sugar. Harry let him grumble without comment, attention split fourways between the television, Zayn's animated features, the food and his phone. Grimmy had texted him about the victory drinks at the pub he'd proposed earlier, but while Harry felt a growing desire to get out of the house, the hassle of navigating streets in the city centre on a Friday night didn't appeal to him, not when he had Zayn to consider.

 

"Zayn. How would you feel about going to the cinema? Right now? There's an Odeon about five minutes away."

 

Zayn inspected his face seriously. "Is it a date?"

 

Caught off guard, Harry stuttered, "No, I'm just- I just thought it'd be nice to go out, just the two of us-"

 

"Okay, we can go." A mischievous glint glimmered in Zayn's beautiful eyes. "You might have to kiss me, though. I believe it's the etiquette."

 

Unsure if he was joking and how to react if he wasn't, Harry only smiled and stacked their dirty dishes in the kitchen sink while Zayn dressed in Harry's ratty old knitted polo and jeans and all but manhandled Harry into a Givenchy button-up he had decided against ever wearing himself simply because the buttons weren't worth the trouble, not that this stopped him from spending a good ten minutes hovering in front of a mostly nude Harry trying to guide said buttons into their assigned holes under the disclaimer that he was "practising". It was a long, strangely charged moment - Zayn murmured under his breath words so indistinct he might as well been purring, his thick lashes cast low on his cheeks, while Harry stood still as a stone, every accidental touch of a claw against skin sent shivers down Harry's spine as much as he tried to act unaffected, fully aware of how pointless it was with Zayn's heightened senses.

 

Once wrapped up in heavy coats and scarves, they forged a battle plan, flung the front door open and sprinted past the remaining reporters in the street hand in hand, racing each other down the street until Harry nudged them into the dark back garden of a house shaded by large cherry trees to ditch potential pursuers. Barely seeing in front of them, they tripped over every single unexpected obstacle on their path and landed in one tangled heap after another before making it out to the other side, a busier street, where it was easy to blend in the Friday night crowd, if any reporter even cared to chase them that far.

 

The charged, flirty atmosphere persevered through their entire trek to the theatre as Zayn cuddled into Harry's side in the chill of the evening and gazed at his face with such unabashed ardor that Harry was half-convinced he was taking the piss. Once they'd entered the building Zayn did in fact extricate himself from the embrace but only because he'd spotted the food concessions. Luckily there was no line and Zayn had all the time in the world to choose his snacks (hotdogs, biscuits, and nachos), which he proceeded to gorge himself with before the film - Guardians of the Galaxy - even started, like it was a compulsion. Maybe it was. Low food security had been a recurring theme in Zayn's life, that much was easy to infer from his instinctive binging when faced with abundance.

 

Afterwards, as they left the theatre, Zayn babbling about his new hero Rocket Raccoon, a dark-skinned woman in a bright pink overcoat and high heels approached them from behind, tentatively. "Hello, I'm so sorry to bother you, but are you by any chance Zayn? On telly this morning?" she addressed Zayn. "I was in the the theatre just now, and I couldn't help but notice your... hands, when you walked past."

 

Zayn inspected her with a blank face. "Yes, I'm Zayn."

 

"Oh, good. My name is Caroline, Caroline Watson. This is very sudden and I understand if you're not interested in this sort of thing at all, but my daughter's nursery school is looking for speakers of different backgrounds for a diversity week of sorts, and well-"

 

"Divershity!" a new, smaller voice piped up, interrupting her, and she laughed, peering behind herself where Harry could now see a girl of four or five in a tiny duffel coat holding on to the woman's coat with both hands.

 

"It's a new word for her," the woman said, coaxing the girl to unclench her fists. "C'mon, baby, let's introduce you to these lovely young men. Tell them your name."

 

"Brooklyn," the girl said bravely and even held out a tiny hand towards them. Zayn, eyes glued to her in rapt interest, took it very gently, and the girl drew in a sharp breath. "I know what you are! You're a champion!"

 

"Brooklyn," her mother hurried to admonish her, but a bright smile had scrunched up Zayn's face.

 

"Yes, I'm a cambion. My name is Zayn. And this is my friend Harry the Human. What are you? I'm not sure."

 

Brooklyn's jaw and eyes snapped open in disbelief. "I'm a human, too!"

 

"No, I don't think so, you're way too small," Zayn said thoughtfully. "Harry?"

 

Fighting back a smile, Harry adopted a similarly confused expression and tapped a finger against his cheek. "I'm gonna have to agree with Zayn. Definitely too small for a human."

 

"Mummy, tell them I'm a human! A human girl," Brooklyn demanded.

 

Zayn knelt down in front of her, inhumanly graceful as usual, bringing their eyes level, and stared at her intently. "Wait," he said, in a hissing rasp of a voice that had them all blinking in surprise. "A girl, you said. I know girls. Little people with tender flesh. I've eaten quite a few, but only if they're small enough to fit in the oven. How tall are you?"

 

Brooklyn moved uneasily, her large dark eyes growing fearfully until she spotted something, a flicker of a smirk perhaps, and shrieked in delight. She rushed forward and shook Zayn's shoulders in mock fury. "You're a liar! You don't eat girls!"

 

While the two of them proceeded to make fast friends with each other and Brooklyn's interest turned to the horns she'd spotted amidst Zayn's hair, Harry shook hands with the girl's mother. "Hello, Harry Styles. Or, the Good Samaritan, if you like." He made a self-effacing grimace.

 

"Right, of course. Lovely to meet you, both of you," she said warmly. "I really didn't mean to take much of your time, in fact Brooklyn and I really should get going, it's already way past her bed time. Uh, Zayn, why don't I give you my contact information, if you could think about the speaker thing. It'd only be half an hour or so, any day next week, I'm-"

 

"I'll come," Zayn decided, his words muffled as Brooklyn was currently inspecting his fangs, tiny hands on his cheeks.

 

"You will? Brilliant." Caroline reached into her bag, took out a calling card and a pen, scribbled down a phone number on the back of the card, and handed it to Harry. "Use my private number, we can settle down the details over the weekend, if that's alright."

 

"Yeah, sure." Harry glanced at the card, noted the stylized silhouette of a woman in a cocktail dress as well as the words "fashion stylist", and pocketed it while Zayn poked Brooklyn's chubby cheek one more time in goodbye. Caroline lifted her up with a groan, muttering about how big she'd gotten, and they both waved as Zayn and Harry walked away down the street.

 

"I like little humans," the cambion sighed with happiness once they'd stopped waving back.

 

Harry thought about the Winston baby that had passed away, probably around the same age as little Brooklyn, but he would have rather dived into the traffic than brought it up on such a beautiful night, if ever. Instead, he gave Zayn's shoulder a playful shove. "Probably because you're so childish yourself." A second later he yelped in surprise as Zayn barrelled into his side, sending him tumbling down on the harsh gravel walk where he sat on his backside, legs spread, until Zayn sidled over in regret to pull him to his feet.

 

"Jesus, I feel like I was just attacked by a bull."

 

"You're clumsy and weak," Zayn muttered in sullen regret, brushing dirt and gravel off Harry's coat with both hands.

 

"And you've just lost your goodnight kiss privileges."

 

"No, gimme my kiss, you promised!" Zayn stepped around him in an attempt to secure his head in place, but Harry slinked away, heading down the street in a half-jog.

 

"I didn't promise anything," he panted as he ran, a huge smile on his face, anticipating the lunge Zayn made at his back, his arms curling around and under the cambion's legs. "C'mon, behave and I'll give you a ride home," he managed to gasp between avoiding Zayn's lips slobbering his cheeks with kisses and steering clear of passers-by giving them curious looks.

 

"I don't wanna go home yet. Let's go to the zoo!"

 

"Pretty sure it's not open this late. We can go tomorrow, if you get out of bed early enough. I was thinking of inviting my colleagues for drinks in the evening, but we could go to the zoo in the morning."

 

"Fine." Zayn was quiet for a moment, resting his cheek against the side of Harry's head. "Let's go to a park, then. I'll show you where I stayed before I found Niall's garden."

 

"Okay, that I'm actually interested to see."

 

Zayn only squeezed his arms tighter around Harry's neck.


End file.
